Chapter Thirty-One
Maximilian couldn’t work. The words were only random letters on paper.
She’d done this to him.
For years, he’d had the comfort of letters and numbers and the statistical combination of codes, even when he’d worked for the government. Letters on paper were like musical notes to a composer. Except now Maximilian couldn’t hear the music. He hadn’t been able to hear it all day and into the evening.
“Sir.” Daggett crept into the room, careful as a mouse waiting to be pounced upon. Apparently his assistant had developed an instinctive sense for his employer’s black mood.
“What?” Maximilian tossed his quill across the desktop. He wasn’t going to complete a single task at this rate. The words were crisp on the page but blurred in his mind.
The ever-present ledger hung loosely in Daggett’s hand. “The Russian Embassy has sent a messenger asking for the—”
“I haven’t finished it yet.” He’d barely started the translation. A headache was brewing behind his eyes. He should be feeling good after his night with Vivienne. She’d been amazing and gorgeous and—well. He didn’t want Daggett to notice what Vivienne did to him. But now he was left worrying about her. Did her “protector,” Wycomb, suspect Maximilian had been there?
He wished he understood that relationship. Father? Uncle? Friend? God’s toes, he was probably a spy—and if so, it grated that she hadn’t trusted him with that information.
Whoever he was, Maximilian hated him. Whatever the ruse, Wycomb could see the Flower whenever he chose. He could enjoy her rare humor. Listen to that sultry voice. More, he did not have to hide, to pretend. Whatever else he was to her, the Flower belonged to him in some way.
Breathing deep, Maximilian tried to turn those thoughts into a hard ball he could lob into oblivion. Part of him understood base jealousy, another part understood idiocy. The Flower could never be his.
He stood, not certain what he would do but certain he could not sit.
“Sir. Sir!” Daggett’s face popped up in front of him, looking harried and rather concerned. “The Russians.”
“Hang the Russian Embassy. I’m going out.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and ignored Daggett’s sputtering. “What is the time? Is Gentleman Jackson’s open?”
“No, sir. It closed hours ago.”
“Unfortunate. I shall have to be civilized and refrain from hitting someone.”
Maximilian had no idea where he was going when he tossed his greatcoat around his shoulders and slipped a pistol into the deep pockets, or when he stepped out in the damp, cold night. But he should have been able to predict his excursion would end at the Flower’s front step.
Light blazed from the windows, illuminating curtains and the rooms behind. No dark windows for the Flower’s residence tonight. The interior looked warm in comparison to the chill of the night air.
He debated knocking on the door, but he was uncertain as to his welcome. She might be happy to see him and invite him in. Or she might toss him out again if her protector were visiting. Or she might be tired of him after a single night.
He was acting idiotic. Like a lovesick swain chasing after his chosen lady, seeking her favor. Lancelot to Guinevere—except King Arthur was King Arthur in name only.
He turned away and began to stride down the street. He should be at home, sitting by his warm fire and working for the Russians, not fancying himself playing Lancelot.
The door to her house opened. He swung around, his heart bumping hard in his chest. The footman limped out first, waving to a carriage coming down the street. Then she came out. Something deep inside him leaped at the sight of Vivienne. She was beautiful dressed in full evening wear. A feather adorned her hair—no, two—and her gown seemed to sparkle as the interior lights moved over it. She was smiling at someone in the hall behind her.
A man stepped out.
The protector.
Jealousy bubbled up inside Maximilian. Jealousy and anger and all manner of messy emotions he’d never felt until he’d become involved with the Flower. He supposed it was misplaced jealousy. Wycomb was not Vivienne’s lover. He’d never felt her body move around and over him, or watched her eyes flutter closed as she sighed.
Still, Wycomb stood in the open with her. Maximilian was relegated to the shadows.
The carriage clattered to a stop in the street. Maximilian fisted his hands and watched as Vivienne and Wycomb moved toward it. She looked graceful and poised, her hand resting on the man’s arm as he escorted her, her head high and the pointed chin proud.
They paused at the carriage door while the footman lowered the steps. Wycomb set his hand on Vivienne’s lower back to guide her forward. He glanced up to the coachman, calling out some instruction.
Vivienne gathered her skirts and set one foot on the carriage step. Then she stilled, turned her head slightly. He couldn’t see her eyes clearly in the dark. They were too far away. But the gold light of the carriage lamp outlined her features.
It was enough to see her lips curve up.
She knew he was there.
Satisfying, that. Very, very satisfying.
…
Utensils clinked against dinner plates, competing with slightly drunken laughter. Across the table from Vivienne, Henri was chatting with the pretty mistress of the chancellor of the exchequer. Candlelight spilled over the table, the merry guests, the sparkling jewels and diamonds these lusty men showered on their mistresses.
It was a strange little tableau. All of these men, these powerful politicians and lords, had wives sitting quietly at home or perhaps attending a ton ball, while their husbands laughed and flirted with kept women.
It was her world, where she mined the secrets and documents she gave to Henri. Tonight, it did not sit easily on her. She was out of place inside her own skin. Still, she must play her role. If she was quick in obtaining the information Henri asked for, then she might have time to search for Anne.
For now, her assignment was the diplomat on her left. Vivienne set her chin on her hand and leaned closer to him. His eyes glazed over. But then, her breasts would be nearly falling out of her gown and quite within his view. She smiled at him, slow and seductive. He didn’t notice. He was still looking at her breasts.
“But what shall London do when you leave for Brussels, my lord?” She set a hand on his arm, squeezed lightly. “The dinner parties shall be boring without you.”
“Come, my dear.” He set his hand over hers, caressed it. “There are many other men here to entertain you. Shall you really miss me?”
“But yes. You tell the most amusing stories.” She cocked her head and pouted. “Why Brussels? It is so far away.”
“Duty, my dear.” He raised his wineglass, as though to toast with her. So she picked up her own glass. The diplomat had drunk at least four glasses already at dinner, and more before. The cheeks beneath his graying whiskers were ruddy.
She had barely sipped from her glass. Wine made a thief’s hands unsteady. Henri, though, was on his second glass. He would likely not have more. Neither of them could risk overindulgence.
“Duty is not pleasurable, monsieur.” She set her glass to her lips and smiled at him over the rim. “I much prefer pleasure.”
“I am certain you do, Mademoiselle La Fleur.” His gaze fell to her mouth and he licked his lips, resembling nothing so much as an aging lion preparing for a tasty meal.
Down the table, their host—a lord who was not her assignment and thus not of consequence that evening—was nibbling on the neck of a pretty blonde she knew was not his mistress. So. That was how the party would end. Some of these men would take home their own mistresses, some would trade for the night. She had been to such parties before. She had always left with Henri and had not been required to be with a man.
She glanced at Henri, who was fawning over a dancer from the corps de ballet. She was a brunette Vivienne knew well enough. She was nice, an English girl who would be in need of a new protector soon, as hers was beginning to tire of her. Henri seemed uncommonly interested. She wondered if tonight would be the night he would leave her to her own devices at such a party. Perhaps so, if she did not gain the information he required of her. She had best hurry. She had no desire to be left with any man.
The host ceased nibbling on his guest long enough to signal that the meal was over. “The ladies may retire to the drawing room. We shall join you shortly, my dears,” he called out.
The diplomat beside Vivienne stood. It was most fortunate she was quick, as he pulled her chair away from the table without warning. Very impatient, was this diplomat.
“Do escort me to the drawing room, won’t you, monsieur?” she asked, sliding her arm through his. Her stomach clenched in disgust, but she stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Your port, it can wait a few moments, no?” It was an invitation, though she was loath to issue it.
Hidden between their bodies, his fingers rubbed against her stomach. Likely he thought this caress would entice her. It did not. Revulsion rippled beneath her skin.
The women, a few accompanied by escorts, began to retire to the drawing room, where they would forgo tea in favor of something stronger. Some of the men stayed behind to start their port. Henri was one, though he did slide a look at her and the diplomat as if to say, only a morsel, no more. It was a warning he had issued before to other men who had sought her favors.
When the men rejoined the women later, there would be more groping of hands and kisses on the sly, until everyone found their partner for night. She had managed it before, and so she did now, when the diplomat pulled her through a dark doorway on their way to the drawing room.
He pressed up her up against the wall, his hips grinding against hers. Hands squeezed her breasts, and his breath came in short gasps in her ear. Bile rose in her throat, shocking her. She had never enjoyed such groping in dark halls, but never had it made her belly revolt in such a way. It was her work, and often unpleasant. But she was trained for it.
She forced the nausea away, forced herself to do her job.
Ignoring the erection pressed against her belly, she tried to giggle. “Sir!”
He kissed her, tongue thrusting. His sour breath made her want to cough. Enough, she thought, desperate to flee. “Must you go to Brussels? Can you not tell whoever is ordering you that you must stay here?”
“I cannot.” Harsh breathing, rasping voice. The man was ready to take her here, against the wall, with her protector a few rooms away. “I cannot,” he said again. “It is too important.”
“Important?” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed against him. A cold part of her mind said she should kiss him. He wanted her mouth on him in other places, so a kiss might send him into the boughs, but she could not bring herself to do it. Loathing skittered across the surface of her skin, raising the hair. Her stomach roiled and clutched.
She did not want to kiss him. And he would not be able to talk, at any rate.
“I knew you were doing something important. An intelligent man like you,” she crooned.
His hands cupped her bottom, squeezed painfully hard.
“What could be more important than this?” she murmured against his ear, in the most seductive tone she could manage while trying not to retch.
“Christ, it’s politics, mademoiselle. Just politics.”
No more. She could not bear more of this. It was time to end it, whether she gained more information or not. She gripped his shoulders and said, “Politics are not interesting enough for someone like you. It must be more than just politics that would keep you away from all of this.” She shook back curls and raised her shoulders, and knew her nipples were exposed, just a little.
“Dear God,” he groaned. “If I wasn’t negotiating a munitions trade with Russia, I’d stay here and pay twice what Wycomb pays you.”
And now she had what Henri wanted.
Relief spread through her. It did not calm the horrible ache in her chest or the battle of nausea in her stomach. But she was done. She could leave him.
“I would think you are twice the man, as well.” What an idiote, if he believed women said such things and meant them. “But you are right, he does pay me. I cannot lie with you without his permission, as you know. But perhaps tonight he will allow it.”
She prayed it never happened.
“Everyone knows Wycomb keeps you on a short leash.”
The diplomat’s hands were still kneading her breasts, so she moved away, unable to tolerate any more. But she gave him a fast, bright smile in compensation.
“I shall see you again, shall I not? When you return from Brussels.”
He visibly reined himself in, stepping back, though he still reached out to caress her shoulder and run a finger across the top of her bodice. She straightened her gown, gave him another forced giggle, and tried not to flee from this disgusting man and his disgusting hands.
Minutes later, he was bowing to her at the door of the drawing room. Some of the ladies were there; others were noticeably absent, no doubt waylaid in much the same way she had been.
Vivienne poured herself a glass of wine and yearned for a tub. Her skin crawled like so many spiders played on her.
She would do her best not to itch while she waited for Henri to return.
She wanted to ask for a hip bath. More, she wanted to be submerged in water for a week. But she could not. Mrs. Asher would hear her heating the water and come out to help in her nightgown. She would wake the footman to carry it. Vivienne did not want to wake them.
Instead, she used the basin and pitcher in her room. The water was frigid, but she needed to be clean. The homespun soap refused to lather, but she scrubbed herself with it regardless. Breasts, neck, arms, legs. Between her legs. Anywhere that could be cleaned and washed, she scrubbed until it was pink. Then the strip of linen to dry her body, the cotton shift to cover herself.
Her knives were already laid out on the table. One was under her pillow. The pistol was loaded and on the opposite bedside table. This was all routine. Each night. Every night. Whether she stole secrets that day or made love with Maximilian, danced at the opera or revealed her nipples to a diplomat. Just another day. Routine.
Now she would practice her forms. Her body needed to be stretched. Trained.
Plié, deep enough so her bottom met her heels. Count two, three, four. Stand again and step into first position, then fifth position.
Routine.
The tears gathered behind her eyes, bringing with them a dull, throbbing ache. She did not let them fall. It was a point of pride that she was able to ignore the choking ache in her chest, in her throat.
Spin, another plié, two, three, four. Arabesque.
Routine. Again, then again, until she was hollowed out.
When she was finished, she sat on the edge of the bed to regain her breath. The tear that fell onto her hand came as a shock. It was very round, that teardrop. A second fell. Vivienne swallowed hard.
She did not cry. Not since the day her mother died. She took what came, bore it, and did what was required of her.
She did not cry.
The tears did not stop. She pressed her face into the pillow and thought of Anne. Of fear. Baring her body to a stranger.
Being alone.
She did not want to be alone, but the only place she could go was Maximilian’s.
Such things were not permanent.