Chapter 15
Nack: To have a nack; to be ready at anything, to have a turn for it.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Next Day
Mariana crouched down into a dark, filthy corner and attempted to make her body as inconspicuous as possible. Nick’s instructions tonight had been as succinct and paltry as those from the previous two nights:
Rue de Buffon. Small black door behind the iron railing.
After skulking up and down the avenue a few times, she’d finally located the small black door behind the iron railing, but she hadn’t known how to proceed from there. So, she’d ducked into an unobtrusive alcove on the opposite side of the street where she could wait and watch. Now twenty minutes later, she was still waiting and watching. Tonight might be a complete failure—another one.
On the bright side, at least, Nick had been wrong on one account: the absinthe hadn’t affected her head this morning, and she’d been able to call on Helene to collect the twins’ letters. All seemed right in their respective worlds with Geoffrey reminding her about the bon-bons and Lavinia buying new ribbons for her ancient mare’s mane. What a sweet, patient old thing Bessie was, and what a horse-mad, dreamy girl Lavinia was. To be sure, it was the perfect match of horse and girl.
Mariana poked her head out and scanned the street up and down. Thankfully, she remained its sole occupant, save a few rats she’d spied scurrying along walls. She shifted her cramped bum from left to right and clutched her knapsack tight to her chest.
Tonight’s note had been accompanied by a long, slender piece of metal resembling a hat pin and the set of clothes she now wore. Nick seemed to have developed a penchant for dressing her, but this time he’d gone beyond the pale. Of course, it didn’t escape her notice that these clothes were the reason she was able to blend with the shadows, dressed as she was in unrelieved black: black knit cap, black woolen sweater, black leather gloves, and snug, black . . . trousers.
What could tonight’s lesson possibly be? Duplicity . . . guile . . . invisibility . . . now trousers. To what end?
As far as she was concerned, trousers were a functional and boring article of men’s clothing. Some men wore them better than others, but she’d never given them a moment’s thought. They didn’t feel terrible, but not quite right either. The fact was she couldn’t help feeling exposed. Trousers were so fitting. They left a woman no secrets.
There was something else, too. After she’d slid them up her legs and began tentatively circling her bedroom in an attempt to adjust to their fit, an odd feeling had stolen over her. She’d felt light . . . free. If she wasn’t careful, she could easily adapt to this particular feeling.
Stranger still, once she’d donned the full costume and tucked her hair into the knit cap, her reflection in the full-length mirror had revealed a man. Well, not a man precisely, rather an ambiguous person who could be anyone. The idea was . . . liberating. It was another feeling to which she could grow accustomed. She was coming to understand what attracted Nick to espionage.
She opened the knapsack, dug out the long pin, and glowered across the deserted street at the innocent door. She had a feeling about this long pin, that door, and the task before her. Namely, Nick was setting her a task doomed to failure. She felt it in her bones. He hadn’t wanted to agree to one more lesson. Most likely he figured that if she failed, she would tuck her tail between her legs and flee Paris.
Captain Nylander, the path not pursued, and his boat came to mind. He could sail her to Margate and on to London, where she would forget the last few, strange days and resume her life as normal.
Except it wouldn’t do.
She’d asked for one more lesson and gotten it. She wouldn’t fail tonight.
On a fortifying wave of pique, she pushed off the wall and out of the shadows, her feet beating a quick tattoo across cobblestones. Within seconds, she stood before the unobtrusive door, long pin in hand and no idea how to use it. The word dolt sprang to mind.
A bead of sweat trickled down her forehead to the tip of her nose. She swiped it away with the back of her hand and squatted to better inspect the challenge before her. She inserted the pin into the keyhole and jiggled it to no great effect. On a huff of frustration, she removed the pin and thought for a moment. She needed to slow down.
Bit by hesitant bit, she reinserted the pin and listened . . . and felt. Again, it struck unrelenting iron. This time, however, her steady hand guided the pin across the unforgiving surface until the tip found a tiny hole and slipped inside. Gently, she pressed forward as she turned the door handle. Like a miracle, the lock gave way and the door creaked open.
From her stooped position, she hobbled inside and pressed back against the door until it closed behind her on a soft click. Her eyes squeezed shut, and she sucked in a relieved breath. The sudden dissonance of hands clapping broke through her relief. Her eyes startled open, and she shot to a stand. Directly across the room stood Nick.
“Why you’re a right rum kate, if ever I saw one,” he said, a smirk curving his lips.
Annoyance at this man struck Mariana at every angle, from his smug expression to his patronizing words. Yet . . . She also couldn’t help feeling gratified. In the cant language, he’d just called her a clever picklock. Four days ago, she wouldn’t have known what those words meant, much less have felt flattered by them.
Discomfited by the thought, she cleared her throat and shifted on her feet. “Tonight’s lesson?”
“Breaking and entering. You, darling, are a natural.”
Even as she chafed against his condescending darling, she experienced a surge of pleasure at the compliment. She was forever at odds with herself when it came to Nick.
She glanced around at the hundreds of tiny drawers lining the walls from floor to ceiling.
“What is this place? An apothecary?”
“You don’t know?”
She shook her head. The familiar quicksilver smile flashed across his face, and a corresponding jolt of excitement streaked through her. She couldn’t help it. That smile did things to her insides.
“Follow me,” he instructed, on the move.
In a snap, he stepped through an adjacent door and out of sight. Mariana dashed into motion to catch him. His brisk clip never once relented as they navigated a maze-like series of narrow corridors.
Finally, they reached a set of double doors locked with an iron padlock larger than her two hands put together. This was a far more formidable lock than the exterior one. She would wager it weighed half a stone.
“What is this place?” she asked again, her curiosity nearly tripping over itself to find out.
He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe. “Time to work your magic again.”
She tore her eyes away from the dratted man and considered the challenge before her. Luck had been on her side with the first lock. With this lock? Her luck had just run out. She risked a glance at Nick. An intent gleam flickered in his eyes. It was as if he was impatient to have her succeed. How unexpected.
She reached for the lock and allowed its heft to sink into her hand. She released the hunk of metal and felt inside her knapsack for the pin. Its long, elegant length didn’t appear equal to the challenge. She suspected Nick caught her hesitation, which strengthened her resolve to succeed. She wouldn’t fail in front of him. Not again, anyway.
With renewed focus, she crouched low on her haunches to better examine the lock. Indeed, it was large, heavy, iron, and formidable. She slid the pin inside, increment by careful increment, and pressed her ear to its cold, hard surface. Just as with the exterior lock, the tip of the pin found a tiny hole and slipped inside. This time, it refused to release.
Frustrated, she raised her head and immediately realized her mistake. Positioned before her face was the closure of Nick’s trousers. All that stood between her and his manhood was a foot-long patch of air and a flimsy length of wool.
“Mariana?”
At the sound of his voice, she startled and tipped backward onto her bottom. Would the humiliation of this night never end? The somewhat mollifying thought occurred to her that, at least, she was wearing trousers. A flash of her bits would have been entirely too much.
Her eyes flew up to meet his, expecting to find amusement there. She didn’t. He remained intent on her in a way that called to mind the Nick she once knew. As he lowered to a crouch beside her, she pushed herself up and mirrored his position. Their eyes locked and held on an equal plane.
Into the short distance between their lips, he said, “You’re almost there.”
“Oh?” It was a moment she could sink into and allow to happen, but the reality was he referenced the lock and not . . . other possibilities.
“A quick, hard twist left should do it.”
Although her brain received his instruction, she could hardly process it. His closeness, his warmth, and the way they combined to conjure last night distracted her so completely. Given that kiss, a kiss now didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. It occurred to her that it might even be an inevitability . . . An inevitability?
She tore her gaze from him and focused on the lock. A quick, hard twist left and—voilà!—the lock released, clunking open. Triumph raced through her, and an irrepressible yip of joy escaped her throat.
Beside her, Nick remained serious and clam. Her smile faltered, and suddenly those other possibilities felt inevitable.
“Now what?” she whispered.
~ ~ ~
Now what? Her lips were the obvious place to start—too obvious.
He would move toward her, and her eyes would close in anticipation of his lips upon hers. At the last moment, he would switch course and press his mouth to the vulnerable space between her jaw and neck, where he would feel the race of her pulse beneath his skin. A surprised gasp would sound, followed by the release of a soft, slow sigh . . . That was one possible outcome.
Her question was the shock of reason he needed. It was imperative he rein in his thoughts about possible outcomes. “Open the door and find out,” he managed.
Her fingertips pushed off the ground and long legs uncurled, her body rising to a graceful stand. She nudged the door open as her feet carried her measure by measure into the room, his gaze trained on her profile, unblinking. This was the moment he’d been anticipating since last night.
In stops and starts of alternating disbelief and awe, her expression bloomed with rapt pleasure. He’d never forgotten how he enjoyed pleasing her.
Beneath a roof composed of opaque glass, black with night, stood an open central floor surrounded on all sides by four stories of wrought-iron balustraded galleries showcasing animals and environments from all seven continents. The meticulously rendered exhibits ranged from the butterflies of Amazonia to the predators of the African savannah.
“Is this—” She cleared her throat. “Is this the Museum of Natural History?” She advanced down the center aisle slowly, reverently, her fingertips smoothing along the fur of a stuffed, South American jaguar. “How did you manage this?”
Nick stood and followed her into the room. “You broke in, remember?”
Her head whipped around. “I’m not so certain of that. I believe your people may have had something to do with this.”
He shifted on his feet beneath the acuity of her gaze. “Do you like it?”
Her face tilted upward to a ceiling populated by skeletons of dinosaurs and stuffed birds of prey. “Like is such a tepid word for what one should feel inside this room. If one merely likes it, then he or she doesn’t deserve to be here.” Her gaze swooped down to meet his. “What do you feel about this place?”
Her question was a test with one correct answer. “What I see before me is nothing short of glorious.”
The import of his words turned the air intimate and hot. A heartbeat, then another, thumped inside his chest. She swiveled around, and her feet began moving.
The minutes ticked by as he kept a discreet distance while Mariana explored one aisle after another: this aisle displaying Arctic life; the next, apes inhabiting their trees; while yet another aisle exhibited reptilian bones from too many millennia ago to count. Her clear joy infected him with a responding elation both automatic and unavoidable.
Although he didn’t fully understand how the woman he’d known a decade ago had transformed into one captivated by old bones, it mattered not. Those ancient skeletons gave her pleasure. That was all that mattered.
As he followed, an inevitability occurred: his baser nature prevailed, and his gaze sank below the supple curve of her waist to a curve more generous. He’d never encountered a woman wearing trousers, therefore hadn’t anticipated their enlivening effect on his person.
He’d thought, perhaps hoped, they would render her masculine, but the opposite was true: coarse wool lovingly encased the curve of her derriere before outlining the length of her legs. She’d never looked more feminine.
A delighted “Oh!” called Nick’s attention away from the increasingly prurient direction of his thoughts.
Of course, she’d found the Woolly Mammoth.
“It’s magnificent,” she whispered. She slowly approached the skeleton, as if she was afraid to startle it. “This is quite a large male. Thirteen feet long, at least. Did you know”—Nick watched a pronounced confidence replace her awe—“a specimen like this would have weighed seven hundred stone?”
She moved around the massive and long-deceased pachyderm to better explore him from every angle: her hands reaching down to span the creature’s sturdy feet; her head ducking beneath for a different view of the animal’s massive ribcage; her fingertips brushing along the length of extravagantly curved tusks.
“Just look at these tusks,” she instructed. It was apparent by her assured tone that she had, indeed, been spending considerable quantities of time in the company of schoolmarms and museum guides. “Their curve disguises how long they truly are. Fourteen feet, at least. Some scientists would suggest that a Woolly Mammoth with a pair of impressive tusks like these would have his pick of the ladies.” She jerked as if coming out of a trance. “Females,” she corrected.
Nick chose to show mercy and let the moment pass. He had other concerns on his mind. For example, he couldn’t take his eyes off the contours of her derriere through the fabric of those trousers. He sidled closer to her on the pretext of inspecting a tusk. In reality, he was ridding himself of the distracting view.
Closer wasn’t better, for now her intoxicating scent of jasmine and neroli drifted over and enveloped him in a cloud of Mariana. If he didn’t know better, he would deduce from his reactions to her tonight—and the last few days, if he was being dead honest—he was enamored of his wife. Again.
No, it couldn’t be. He’d vowed never to let that happen.
Amor hadn’t motivated his plan tonight. Mariana had voiced an interest in this museum, and it just so happened that it was the perfect setting for her third spy lesson. There didn’t have to be anything more meaningful to it.
He thought somewhat sheepishly of the next phase of this night and the garden just beyond these walls. It wouldn’t do much to disprove the previous thought. “Would you care for a light repast?”
She shot him a quizzical glance. “Here?”
“Follow me.” He brushed past her, his pace a decisive clip as they wound through two small, adjacent rooms before reaching a wide door. He pushed it open and stood aside, allowing Mariana to step past him onto an exterior landing. His inhalation as she passed him was pure instinct. He was unable not to help himself to a breath of her.
Once through the door, she came to a sudden stop and gasped even louder than she had at the sight of the Woolly Mammoth. “Nick,” she began, her voice a halting whisper, “what is this place?”
“The Jardin des Plantes.”
Below them twinkled hundreds—two hundred, he recalled approving—of globe candles lining a crushed granite path and hanging from trees and shrubs at varying heights.
“This is more than a light repast.” Golden amber fell on him. “This is magic.”
Nick suppressed a surge of pleasure at her words. The caterer may have gone a bit overboard. All he’d requested were a few courses for a light supper, an open-air tent, a few reclining sofas, and a few candles. Two hundred, to be exact.
It was entirely possible that the caterer had followed his instructions to the letter.
Nick followed Mariana as she descended the short flight of stairs before stepping onto a path that curved through the garden created for both pleasure and research purposes.
Once they reached a table set beneath the dimly lit tent, she asked, “I wasn’t really breaking and entering tonight, was I?”
“No.” He pulled out a chair for her. “The museum and its grounds are ours for the night.”
“This is perhaps the loveliest light repast I’ve ever encountered.”
The moment Nick took his seat opposite hers, a parade of attendants appeared with a first course of oysters presented with small plates of varied and colorful tidbits of cuisine.
“Are we meant to eat these enchanting creations?” Delight sparked an amber glow in her eyes. “What are they?”
“Amuse-bouche.”
“Amuse-bouche?”
“Mouth amuser.”
“Oh, the French.” A charmed smile quirked her lips. “They simply can’t help themselves, can they?”
“A single amuse-bouche is typically served at the start of the meal or between courses, but I wasn’t certain of . . .” he trailed off. He didn’t like the pull of this conversation toward the past.
“My tastes? So you had several brought out,” she finished for him. She was one to meet a difficulty head-on. “This garden is too bewitching for the past.”
She brought an oyster to her mouth and tipped it back, allowing it to slip inside her mouth and slide down her throat.
Nick sat, transfixed.
She patted her lips with a napkin and asked, “Did I pass this spy lesson?”
He cleared his throat. “With flying colors.”
She tucked a stray tendril of hair behind her ear. “I must confess,” she began. He caught an unexpected glimpse of nerves. “The Woolly Mammoth took my breath away.”
“Was it more massive than you imagined?” The question was out of his mouth before he considered it. One could locate a double entendre within if one looked closely enough. Her case of nerves infected him as he anticipated her response.
“Not the size of him”—She hesitated a heartbeat—“The gift of him.”
Nick shifted in his seat. “Well, you mentioned him, and I thought to—”
“Surprise me?”
“Actually,” he began, “I have a connection within the museum—”
“Of course, you do.”
“—And since this place is known for its thousands of locks, I merely thought it a suitable venue for your lesson.”
The parade of servers returned with a course of roasted meats and vegetables.
Mariana’s eyebrows drew together, and Nick grew alarmed that he’d made a mistake, but they released and a rare, wondrous smile lit across her face.
“Is this,” she began, her fork poking at her meat, “is this rabbit?”
Memory, sharp and sweet, raced between them. The Isle of Skye. Their honeymoon.
“What a lark we thought it would be,” she said on a wry laugh, “to arrive at the lodge three days before the servants and have the entire place to ourselves.”
“But we forgot one essential detail,” he said, drawn into the memory with her.
“Food,” she supplied. “In my defense, I thought I’d spent enough hours in my family’s kitchens as a child that I’d picked up the bare essentials of cooking.” She speared a new potato. “The first day wasn’t so bad.”
“That was because the innkeeper in Kyleakin saw fit to send us on our way with a loaf of bread and a Scotch pie.”
She swallowed her bite and laughed. “We took care of that in short order.”
“The next day was cured meats and the remainder of the stale bread loaf.”
“But the third day,” she began, slicing off a bite of rabbit and bringing it to her mouth.
“Starving.”
“Ravenous,” she added around the bite. “How did we come by the groundskeeper’s cottage?”
“We thought to alleviate our hunger by taking a walk.” He left unsaid what else they’d done to keep the hunger at bay.
“That’s right. We happened upon his house. Mr. Budge, a grumpy, old Scot, if there ever was one.”
“He was just pointing us back in the direction of the lodge—”
“When, like a miracle,” Mariana cut in, “the front door opened and emitted both the man’s wife and the most heavenly aroma of roast—”
“Rabbit.”
Their gazes met and held on a smile.
“How did we finagle our way into their dining room?” she asked.
“Our wolfish leers must’ve done the trick.”
“I’m fairly certain Mrs. Budge fed us her entire pantry.”
“Without a doubt.”
Mariana’s smile went dreamy and thoughtful in a way he hadn’t seen in years. It reminded him of the best moments of their marriage when she would open herself to him and reveal the softness at her core. Only he knew this part of her, and it warmed him. Her smile was a gift.
“I send Mrs. Budge a Christmas goose and a box of oranges every year,” she said.
“You do?” he asked, the rasp in his throat hopefully obscuring the emotion behind it.
“Of course. She was part of one of the happiest memories from our—” Mariana bit off the rest of the sentence, and the present brushed away the past.
“Marriage,” Nick finished for her, vowing at once not to finish anymore of her sentences.
Her smile skittered away, and she nodded.
Once again, the parade of servers returned to clear their plates and set the course of fromage. Nick dismissed the attendants for the night.
Mariana ran her fingers up the stem of her glass, and Nick had to look away. While he related to the impulse for more champagne, there was a different appetite that had been awakened and required but one meal to reach satiety.
One meal? No. Once with his wife had never been enough. Their Scottish honeymoon attested to that fact.
“About the Comte de Villefranche?” she began, pulling him away from thoughts that could reach no satisfying end.
“Yes?” he asked, clipped, curt. He shouldn’t feel annoyed that she’d brought up the mission. After all, she was his agent.
“I’ve given my encounters with him a bit of thought. He may be young and idealistic, and perhaps a bit brash, but he doesn’t strike me as a revolutionary bent on anarchy.”
“What sort of revolutionary is he?”
“The well-meaning sort, I think.”
“The well-meaning sort?” Nick asked, unable to hide his skepticism.
“Perhaps the misguided sort.”
“Are you willing to wager the lives of England’s sons on conjecture?”
Mariana held her tongue and averted her gaze.
“Don’t allow a handsome, young idealist to turn your head.”
“Handsome? Young?”
Nick detected the insinuation in her tone. “Impetuous,” he continued, hoping that settled it.
“Ah,” she drew out. The subtle lift of her eyebrows spoke of disbelief.
The Mariana who said, “Ah,” and kept the remainder of her thoughts to herself was new, the opposite of the gallivanting girl who stomped across the Skye countryside proclaiming her impending starvation to the world. He wasn’t sure which version he preferred.
She pushed away from the table and stood. Champagne glass in hand, she stepped toward a patch of peppermint dahlias in bloom. “While on his famed expedition to Mexico,” she began, changing the subject, “Alexander von Humboldt sent dahlia seeds to Paris, London, and Berlin.” She glanced over her shoulder, a glimmer of mischief in her eye. “Perhaps you encountered Humboldt on one of your Mississippi riverboats?”
“Humboldt and I don’t travel in the same circles.”
She returned her attention to the effulgent blossoms. “Kew Gardens has maintained a lively dahlia patch from Humboldt’s seeds.”
As Mariana continued with a botany lesson about the edible tubers—apparently ancient South American civilizations used them for food—it struck Nick that her education, and her need to educate, was a device intended to place distance between them.
“The effect of the candlelight on the flower petals is lovely,” she continued. “The way they absorb the light, yet reflect it with a soft, deep glow. Like little scraps of velvet beneath a night sky.”
“Have you become a poet, Mariana?” Given her response to turn away from him, would he have detected a blush in the light of day?
“If I didn’t know better,” she began, a hitch in her voice that only he knew, “I would think this the scene of a seduction.”
Unable to remain seated quietly when such words issued from her lips, he rose. “If you didn’t know better?”
She caught his eye over her shoulder. “Yes.”
“Are you so certain it isn’t?” He wasn’t so certain himself.
“Yes.”
It was the jagged fray in her voice when she spoke that simple, “Yes,” that sent him over the edge and set him on a course both foolish and inevitable, possible outcomes suddenly fated.