Chapter Twelve
Monsieur Westwood was bent over his desk when she slipped into the study. He never seemed to be anywhere else. Did he not rest? It was always work with this one.
Vivienne could only be grateful for it.
She hesitated in the doorway, watching him scratch away with his quill. He worked without gloves, probably to be more efficient and practical. A single candle was set at his elbow, casting its light over an array of documents and multiple inkwells. Quills lay side by side on the desktop, as if marching across the polished surface. Behind him, flames crackled and spit in the hearth, illuminating the shelves lining every wall. Books towered and tumbled about, their leather covers muted in the firelight.
Had he read them all? Most likely. It made her feel stupid.
The monsieur’s quill paused in its scratching.
“Hello, Mademoiselle La Fleur.”
How did he always know it was she? Even with his face nearly pressed to his papers, he knew. “Hello, Monsieur Westwood.”
Turning to look at her, he pulled off his spectacles and her stomach did a funny little flip. The strong jaw and broad shoulders, the muscular thighs beneath nankeen breeches made him seem so male. But the hazel eyes punctuated with bursts of gold, the full lips that ought to kiss rather than frown—it was these that drew her focus.
“Did you receive a message from Marchand, or do you have another body to dispose of?” Oh, that wry tone made her want to smile, though there was little to smile about.
“A message.” Boots silent on the thick rug, she crossed to him and offered the two sections of the note.
Wide, strong fingers plucked it from her hand. Delicately, carefully, as though he did not want to touch her skin. But just as he wrote without gloves, she picked locks without gloves, so they did touch. A brush of finger on finger. Rough skin, warmth, and then he was bent over the message, spectacles looped once more over his ears.
“It’s in two pieces.” Brows raised in question, he peered at her over the top of the lenses.
“The housekeeper’s cleaver discovered the note.”
“Method of conveyance?” Attention shifting to his task, he looked back at the note.
“A chicken.”
“That must have been a surprise.”
He did not push aside the document he had been working on. It was more an orderly shifting of duties. Paper on top of paper, straightened just so, then the entire stack was moved to the side of his desk and squared against the corner before he bent over the Vulture’s note. Powerful hands ran over the lines of text, then settled lightly on Anne’s scribbled note. “There is a message. From the girl?”
“Yes. I recognize her handwriting.”
“She lives. Good.” He pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a forefinger. “Let us see what Marchand has to say.”
“Is it the same code?”
“I cannot tell at first glance.”
The vulture signature was the same, but the rest was a jumble of letters to her. She set her hand on his shoulder and leaned over, looking at the two scraps of paper.
Muscle shifted beneath her hand. Staring down at her fingers, at the shoulder beneath it, the note was forgotten. His body was warm and solid, and she felt strength there as well. The faint scent of sandalwood drifted on the air, and Vivienne wondered how strength and sandalwood could cause her pulse to hitch.
She heard his breath then. A little strained.
“Step back, if you would, please,” he said curtly, shoulder moving again beneath her hand. He did not look up at her. “You are distracting.”
“I beg your pardon?” Taking a step back, then another, she let her hand slip away from his shoulder. She could not help staring at his profile. She was distracting?
Something odd fluttered in her belly again. Strange, but not altogether unpleasant. She could not decide if she liked it. It left her feeling unsettled inside and aware of every inch of her skin. She very much feared this fluttering had unleashed something she had not known was inside her.
“The code is identical. They have not modified it.” Quill flew over the paper while his eyes narrowed in concentration. Such concentration he had.
She could focus, too, and block that uneasy, slightly delicious feeling inside her to think only of the note. “What does it say?”
“Wait. I am not finished.”
The thick rug gave way beneath her boots as she shifted impatiently. He knew the code—he should be faster. Finally, when her patience had spun out almost entirely, he spoke.
“Bond Street, noon on 21 October. I am hoping to find a gift for my mother. Perhaps she would enjoy some jewelry. The gift must be delivered unopened to the Nelson Hotel, Room 12. Marchand’s vulture signature completes the message.” Monsieur Westwood paused, his frown ferocious. “I must have made a mistake. That message does not make sense. Jewelry? Gifts?”
“No mistake, monsieur,” she said softly. A message like this she could understand. “It is a conversation.”
“What?” He removed his spectacles and rubbed a hand over his face. Leaning back in his chair, quill dangling from one hand, he looked up at her with bleary hazel eyes.
“Someone on Bond Street will say to me he is looking for a present for his mother. I will say she might like jewelry. He—or she—will give me something to deliver while we speak.” Thinking, planning, she began to pace the room. “A letter, most likely, or the business would not be conducted in the open. He wants me to be a simple courier. Nothing difficult. It is a test.”
“How is it a test?”
“Because it is a simple task. Accept a letter over here, and take it over there.” She shrugged and stepped yet farther from him. “Any of his agents could do it.”
“Explain.” Frowning, he lifted his spectacles and peered at the lenses, as if looking through them again would help him understand.
“The Vulture wishes to determine if I will do as he commands, now that he has the girl.” There was no choice but to do as Marchand demanded, even if Anne was well. “I will do as he asks.”
“What of the letter?” He stood now, towering over the desk and her with shoulders that seemed overly broad, though not frightening. They were simply masculine—and she felt foolish for even thinking so. “You don’t know what you’re delivering.”
“True.” The war was over, but there were still secrets to be uncovered and sold. “Delivering a message without opening it is part of the test.”
“You can’t do that.”
He set a hand on her arm. Perhaps he meant to stay her, or simply to punctuate his words, but for a moment, all of the world contracted to that single point of contact. The unleashed thing in her noticed only his hand, warm and strong through the sleeve of her coat, before his hand fell away and the world expanded again.
She took a deep breath, a very deep breath. “Monsieur, any letter will be sealed. If I open it and Marchand discovers I have done so, I will have proved myself untrustworthy to him.” Once more the world contracted, this time to a single thought. A single fear. “Anne might die.”
“What will we do, then? You can’t deliver the letter without knowing what the consequence might be.” Solemn finality edged the words when he spoke.
“There is a way to open such a letter, but it is difficult and will take time.” She shook her head. “What if I did open it? It might be a letter about jewelry, or some other innocuous thing. If it is also coded, I would not know what it said, at any rate.” Which Marchand would hope for. He would want her to deliver it, not to decipher it.
“Confound it, you’re right. It is an impossible situation.” He ran both hands through his hair, gripping the mix of cinnamon and russet and gold. She was becoming accustomed to this movement, and it nearly made her smile. “I’m coming with you.”
Now there was no desire to smile. “Do not be absurd. You are not a spy.”
“No, but I am a code breaker. You’ll likely need one to decode the letter. Need me.”
“Perhaps.” Ideas formed and broke apart and formed again. “I need you,” she said softly. “Yes. I need you.”
His gaze dropped to her lips, stayed there a moment before flicking back up to her eyes. Others had looked at her lips in such a way, like they wanted to nibble and taste. Some tried, despite her protector. Monsieur Westwood had never looked at her just so.
He made her think of kissing.
Vivienne had never wanted to kiss someone before. What would it be like? Wishing to feel those lips against hers—it was too much sensation to feel inside a body. Heat. Uncertainty and need pulsing low in her belly. Shock, as this man had never looked at her in such a way before.
“Come with me, the day after tomorrow.” The invitation sounded awkward to her ears. She felt awkward. Something had changed inside her and between them. “I only need you to be nearby when I receive the letter. To read it, and other things.”
He watched her solemnly. They were close, too close, so that she could see the gold spears in the depths of his eyes.
“Other things,” he said softly, gaze falling to her mouth once more.
…
I need you. She’d whispered it in low, soft tones, watching him cautiously with those dark eyes. Below them were her lips, pink, curved, and calling to him simply by existing.
If there was ever a woman he should leave be, it was the Flower. Not only because she was a spy, but because she had an arrangement with Wycomb. It was not quite the same as lusting after another man’s wife, but close enough.
Maximilian dragged his gaze away from her mouth and forced his mind back to the problem—a meeting on Bond Street, finding the girl, and stopping Marchand.
Maximilian would not let the Flower go alone.
“What, exactly, does ‘other things’ entail?” he asked.
“I do not know, for certain. I must see the letter first.” She shrugged, an expressive movement full of Gallic indifference. A pink flush tinged her cheekbones and made him think of all sorts of other things.
Whatever it meant in the Flower’s world, it was bound to be more unpleasant than in his world.
“Also, you must bring the tools to open the note,” she continued, stepping away from him. Skimming a hand down her thigh, she smiled suddenly. “I can hide much in my clothing, but not everything.”
“What do you usually conceal in your clothing?” That, you bloody idiot, sounded both debauched and stupid at the same time. To busy his hands, he scooped up the two halves of the note. He couldn’t think what to say to excuse his momentary lapse of intelligence.
“Monsieur Westwood.” She cocked her head to the side, a little half smile fluttering about her lips. Not quite the smile she had used to laugh at his cravat—that one had been colored by the role of coquette. This was soft rather than mocking. “Those are my secrets.”
The Flower reached out, hand cupped to receive the paper he offered. Black wool shifted over her shoulders and torso, leaving him wondering less about the weapons lurking beneath her clothes than her figure.
Gaze dropping to trace her shape, he speculated for only one moment before his brain properly engaged. Eyes wheeled in his skull as he tried to avert them, refusing to ogle the Flower as men of his brother’s ilk did.
It was too late.
Curved hips in breeches, a narrow waist nipped in by the coat—he could not see her breasts, but dear God, in that moment he wanted to. Desperately.
Gripping the back of the chair to steady himself, he tried not to breathe in her clean, simple scent. Everyone used fragrant soap—even his soap smelled like sandalwood. Not the Flower. Her lack of perfume was as dangerous as an opiate.
“Day after tomorrow.” He tried to wipe the burgeoning image of her breasts from his brain, but the confounded organ defied him. So he did not turn to look at her again, lest he look at some other improper part of her.
“Merci.” The word was very quiet. Very thoughtful.
He did not hear her retreating footsteps, but he did hear the door close as she left.
Her damnable scent lingered.