Chapter Thirty-Three
The brothel smelled like a perfumery. It was also loud. Female giggling, male laughter. Off-key violin music. Voices ebbing and flowing, punctuated by a stray shout or two.
Made his damnable head hurt.
He pretended to enjoy the scenery. He didn’t have much choice. Everywhere he looked a half-bared woman was romping around while men leered and fondled. The women didn’t seem to mind, either, he decided as he glimpsed a voluptuous blonde giggling as a man did something or other under her skirt. Well, this was their occupation, so he supposed they were used to it.
Still, he was getting dizzy from averting his eyes and trying to find some innocuous place to look. He wasn’t having much luck. Even the artwork on the walls was titillating.
Thank all the fates it was the Flower on his lap and not some other woman. Vivienne’s hair was loose and curling. She shook it back, laughing at some words uttered by a passing rake, and the dark mass tumbled and flirted with her shoulders. She wore a little black mask decorated with feathers and paste jewels, as did a few other women—likely well-bred ladies of the ton out playing for the night. The mask was a silly little disguise, he would know the shape of Vivienne’s face, her mouth, even the color of the eyes peeking from behind the mask.
He couldn’t understand how these other men didn’t recognize her.
Perhaps it was her newly revealed aristocratic tones and vocabulary. Gone was the lilting French accent of her birth he so enjoyed. With the mask covering her face, it was like watching another woman instead of the Flower.
“Oh, my lord, don’t be so silly!” She laughed at a passing lord’s lewd suggestion then leaned back against Maximilian’s chest. He gritted his teeth. Her false laugh grated on him.
Her buttocks shifted on his lap so she was practically lying on him. One of her legs swung easily between his. Her thigh kept sliding against his body. Her gown was some confection of silk and lace and sheer fabric meant for the bedroom, though there seemed to be a considerable amount of it. He tried to keep himself in check, but he felt his body growing hard with each movement.
Damn perfidious body.
“How long do we have to stay in this hellhole?”
“Until I locate the owner, sir.” She pressed a kiss against the underside of his jaw. Didn’t help his body at all.
“Well, let’s get started.” He didn’t want these men looking at the Flower with such avarice a moment longer. “It’s unfortunate you couldn’t sneak in through a window.”
“Yes, but this is not such a place. Also, I would not get a feel for what type of man he is. I need to see. To evaluate. But you are not playing your role, sir. I believe we talked about that earlier this evening.” She whispered the words in his ear, then nibbled on his earlobe.
“God’s elbows—” He gasped. Heat bolted through his body in a single lightning strike.
Now her laughter was real. Full throated and like the Vivienne he knew instead of some disguised English tart. Her eyes sparkled behind the mask, so amused, so delighted. Every one of his muscles tightened, and he fought the urge to just take her mouth with his and bring that laughter into him.
Then he did have to kiss her. He couldn’t help it.
Uncaring about who was watching, or where they were, he set a finger beneath her chin and angled her face toward his. Ravenous for her, he covered her mouth. She was warm and responsive, and the fingers clutching his lapel tightened, tugging him closer. He angled the kiss, deepened it.
She pulled away, her breathing ragged. “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, once again in her native tongue.
He struggled to regain his focus but was drugged by her kisses, by the fresh scent of her soap that created an oasis in the sickeningly sweet confines of the brothel. He was fighting a losing battle.
Until her eyes narrowed, fixating on something beyond his shoulder.
“There he is.”
“Who?” His brain was moving at half speed.
“The courier, Lessard. The owner of the brothel. Don’t look,” she whispered as he started to turn in the chair. “He’s coming this way.”
“How can you tell he is Lessard?”
“The king is always recognizable,” she said softly.
He did not turn to look, but every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for the man to appear. The pistol tucked beneath his coat pressed against his ribs, and he fought the urge to retrieve it. He wanted to pull her away from this, to protect her from this brothel owner.
But he wasn’t there to stop her, he was there to assist her.
He’d given his word.
…
Her brain was fuddled. She could not remember who she was: herself, the pretend English aristocrat in a brothel, a spy, or Maximilian’s lover.
She had better decide, because in a few minutes she would step temporarily over the line. But she could not see another way to find Anne. She only wished she were not in the vulnerable position of negotiation. At least she had three knives on her person.
Watching Lessard cross the room toward her, she wished she had three more.
She did not show it. She toyed with Maximilian’s cravat. The elaborate waterfall she’d crafted for him after they made love was crushed and crooked from her hands.
“I cannot tell if he knows who I am,” she whispered to Maximilian. She did not have time to study the scarred face of Lessard to be sure. “Remember that I must speak to him alone.”
“Vivienne, I cannot leave you with him.” The words were short and sharp. “I cannot.”
“I will not be able to save Anne if I do not talk to Lessard in private. Please, be only my lover and let me go. Nothing more.”
She leaned forward and kissed Maximilian. Desperation fueled her passion, and his participation seemed to be driven by protection. He was alert, his muscles poised for action. She hoped he held himself in check.
“You kiss him as though you mean it, mademoiselle. I was nearly deceived.” Lessard’s voice was low, carrying easily beneath the raucous tones of the crowd.
Digging her fingers into Maximilian’s arms as a warning, she broke away from his mouth and peered up. Lessard was tall. Very tall. And wide as a mountain base. This did not concern her. Men the size of mountains could be felled as easily as any other if one knew how to do it properly.
“I do mean it, Monsieur Lessard.” She cocked her head and set the feathers on her mask fluttering. “This is my escort for the evening.” She smiled at her opponent, slow and feline.
Maximilian’s arm was tight around her waist, fingers pressed hard into her ribs. There was anger there, and fear as well. Both were layered over with some fierce emotion she could not name while staring into the unattractive face of Lessard.
“I have been studying you this past hour.” Lessard’s voice carried a hint of steel.
She did not speak but angled her gaze up at the Frenchman. Lessard idly tapped his ringed fingers against the glass in his hand. Gold liquid swirled in the crystal, distorting his fingers. They looked like grotesque pink snakes slithering on the glass.
“Usually when a couple ventures into my establishment, they are looking for a third partner. Or two new partners. This I am accustomed to. But you”—Lessard’s fingers tapped against the glass again—“you have eyes for no one but each other.”
“Perhaps we prefer to watch. There are those that do.” She had heard the other dancers, the actresses speak of such couples.
“I think you are not one of them.” He paused, smiled thinly. “My lady La Fleur.”
Ah. The knowing tone, the thin smile. He knew she was the Flower. Unwise to think it would be she to reveal her identity at the moment that best suited her.
She must decide how to play the game. In a moment of time, one could generate a dozen plans and discard all of them. Denial of identity. Distraction. Incite a small riot in the room and escape unnoticed. Fight.
She flicked her eyes around the room. She had noticed the footmen in the corners, ready to assist guests. But now each of the large, broad men blocked an entrance—no doubt on Lessard’s command.
None of her options seemed wise.
She looked at Maximilian, at brown and green and gold eyes studying her every thought. Beneath her, Maximilian’s thighs were hard as stone. He knew of the blocked exits. Despite the women and liquor and laughter around them, he understood there was no escape—and what she meant to do next.
Holding his gaze with her own, she said softly, “I think our plans this evening have been spoiled. Perhaps you should go.”
Maximilian did not speak. Only searched her face with those multicolored eyes. He saw everything in her. Despite the mask she wore, he saw everything except the deepest secrets she kept hidden. And she saw in his gaze that he would keep his promise.
Why this should create a tear in her heart, she could not say.
“I think your friend shall not leave, mademoiselle.” Lessard flicked his finger, and two of the men stationed at the door began to move toward them. “The three of us, we shall have a private meeting, n’est-ce pas?”
Lessard’s voice was still low and quiet, his manner mild despite his bulk. He did not want to be overheard.
His weakness. Her advantage.
So she stood. Raised her voice.
“What do you mean, I shall not recoup my money?” A very slim chance this would work. But still she tried, raising her fist, just a little. Shaking it just a little. “I paid for this service!”
Nervous voices, nervous glances. They were all about her, from guests pausing their games and laughter and groping. Good. It would pressure Lessard.
“Mademoiselle.” Not just steel, but anger in his voice now. He leaned over her, towering with his height. In a whisper meant only for her ears, he said, “In seconds, my guards will be able to kill you in a number of unpleasant ways.”
Behind her, Maximilian unfolded his length until he stood at her shoulder. She felt him stiffen as though they were in contact, skin to skin. She did not need to see him to know he was angry.
She stepped closer to Lessard. Bared her teeth. “In seconds, the knife tucked in my stays will be lodged between your ribs and into your heart. Your men will be too late.” Lessard sucked in a breath. Ah. She had his attention. “Release the monsieur. He is not part of this. A prop only, a man I consider useful when I need a companion for establishments such as these.” She could not look at Maximilian as she spoke the words. “I do not want innocent deaths on my hands.”
Lessard’s eyes flickered, his gaze moving back and forth between her eyes. Judging her veracity. She did not hide the lie in her face. She felt it, lived it, breathed it. It was a truth that she lied. And so the enemy, he would see truth in her eyes.
“I believe he is not important to you. But—” A snap of fingers to summon a large footman. A glance at Maximilian. “He will be my insurance for your goodwill.”