Chapter Thirty-Four
She was becoming a liability.
The Vulture watched the Flower as Lessard spoke with her. A very interesting dress she wore. It left little to the imagination. He might have mistaken her for a society whore if he had not made such a study of her. The tilt of her head, her movements, her laugh. The mask she wore did not hide these things. He knew her instantly, once he looked closely.
He might not have done, if Westwood had not accompanied her. The man had given him pause. Westwood did not attend establishments such as Lessard’s, so he—and his companion—had warranted a second look.
And so he had seen the Flower beneath the mask.
He had not expected such tenacity in her. Or such loyalty. The Flower had walked into the lion’s den—Lessard’s brothel—without even the slightest appearance of concern. Still, she had done so, which meant she had not given up her search for the girl.
He had not accounted for this perseverance.
From his shadowed alcove, he watched her confrontation with Lessard. Neither had the upper hand, particularly. Westwood, too, the Vulture watched. The man bristled like a cur defending his territory, but he did not attack. There was too much control in Westwood.
The Vulture was not finished with the Flower yet. She might not be the double agent he’d hoped for, but he had a very specific assignment for her. Then he would kill the Flower and the girl. The Flower had too much integrity for betrayal, it seemed. But he would have to send a message to keep her in line a little longer.
A very clear message.
…
Around them, music played, women giggled. Men ran card games and drank liquor and glanced nervously at their exchange. Still, Vivienne did not have the advantage.
“As you wish, then, Monsieur Lessard,” she murmured. She would need to tread carefully if they were both to live.
“We shall retire to my private quarters,” Lessard said just as quietly. “Your guest cannot join us.”
“Monsieur—” She turned to look at Maximilian. He was there, ready, alert. She saw it in the fisted hand, the bracing of his thighs, the angle of his head and shoulders. “I have no more need of you, other than an escort home. Do find yourself another playmate for the night.”
She turned her back on Maximilian, but not before she saw the fear in his eyes. He had sworn to do what she asked, but there was pain in his promise.
From behind her, in the coldest voice she’d ever heard from Maximilian, “As you wish, miss.”
A glance over her shoulder revealed Maximilian executing a short bow. Rigid shoulders were squared, his clenched jaw twitching with the strain of not acting. His gaze was hard and sharp.
“If you’ll excuse me.” He turned on his heel and strode through the reveling crowd, narrowly avoiding a naked woman pulling a half-dressed gentlemen to the stairs leading to upper bedchambers.
She had never asked for so much from a man—and had never been given so much.
With a heavy heart, she flicked her fingers in Maximilian’s direction, dismissing him. “I was becoming bored of him this night.”
“Then let us discuss something more interesting.” Lessard offered his arm, just as he would on a ton dance floor, but the eyes watching her were not the nice eyes of a dance partner. They were canny and perceptive. Daring her.
Taking his arm would mean very close proximity. One could be easily killed in this way. But not here; it would be in private. She had a few minutes before death, at least.
She tucked her arm beneath Lessard’s. It was a short walk through the crowd of patrons and to the stairs. This was a different set than those leading to the girls’ rooms. The base was guarded by one of those broad-shouldered, brawny footmen scattered about the room.
“Your private quarters, monsieur?” She peered up the staircase, surprised to find it well lit by wall sconces. She had supposed friends of French spies would want to hide in shadows. Lessard was not afraid of scrutiny, it seemed.
“I maintain lodgings here.”
They walked side by side, in unison. It was perplexing to be in unison with one’s enemy. His booted feet sounded heavy on each step; her slippered feet clicked. The train of her revealing gown slid over each step as she ascended. Their movements were an odd sort of measured dance.
“Do you often bring British agents to your lodging?” she asked coyly.
“A question I would prefer not to answer.” He slid a glance in her direction. “You did not expect one.”
“I did not, but there is always hope, yes?” They were at the top of the stairs now. Fourteen steps in total. There had seemed to be a hundred. She did not dwell on them, looking over the rooms instead. “Very lavish lodgings, Monsieur Lessard. Either Marchand must pay you exceptionally well, or the brothel is quite lucrative.”
“Indeed.” His arm fell away, and he bowed, ushering her into the space, not pretending he did not understand her.
His quarters were filled with every manner of comfort. Pillows, lush carpet, gleaming furniture. Wine and brandy bottles lay on their sides in a rack covering one wall. She could smell cheroots and male eau de cologne. Various weapons covered another wall, ranging from axes to pistols to sabers.
And the paintings. They were no better than those on the first floor. Naked women in various stages of undress, their bodies on display. Some were beautifully and carefully painted, others were crude and suggestive. All part of men’s fantasies, as she knew well enough.
“And so, mademoiselle, you are here.”
“So I am,” she said. She turned away from the paintings to watch Lessard as he strode to the desk. He lifted the lid of a carved wooden box and extracted a cheroot. He stuck it between his teeth but did not light it. Perhaps there was some refinement in this mountain of a man who ran a brothel.
“I had not expected you as of yet.” He came around the desk, stepping closer to her.
As of yet. Which meant he had expected her at some point. She wondered why but did not respond. She waited, quiet, watchful, and was rewarded.
“I must wonder, my Flower, are you here on Marchand’s orders, or your own?”
His hand extended toward her, took hold of her chin. She did not stop him when he forced her head up. Did not stop him when he turned it side to side to study her face, no matter that his hands smelled of onion and his breath of tobacco. Scent could wash off. It would not stay in her nostrils or on her skin forever.
“Mmm.” She waited again, let him read her face for a long moment. Let him think, in this short time, that he was in control. That it was he who drove this conversation.
Then she jerked her head out of his hand.
“I am here on both, monsieur.” She stepped away from him, shrugged her shoulders. “I thought, Monsieur Lessard, he is an important man. Marchand puts much responsibility on him.”
“Flattery, ma chère.” He was not falling prey to it—not entirely, at any rate. Only enough for his chest to puff out the smallest of degrees. He chewed on the cheroot with large, unclean teeth before answering, as though the cheroot would impart some wisdom. “I am close to Marchand, yes, but I am my own man. What business is that of yours?”
Now they were coming to the cat-and-mouse game. Reveal information, hold information. Lie, truth. Give, take. It was now that she would walk the line of treason to find Anne.
She began to move through the room, to appear as if she were learning each piece of furniture, each nude painting. “I am one of Marchand’s now. If I am to be one of Marchand’s, I must learn who among his men is the best. Who is the strongest?” Sliding a glance behind her, she smiled slyly at Lessard. “Whom should I ally myself with?”
“You are one of Marchand’s only because of the girl.” He spoke harshly, crossing his arms as he leaned on his desk. Lessard’s eyes were very unreadable.
“I am.” Her heart bumped hard inside her chest. Yes. He knew of Anne. If he knew of her, he might know where she was. “There is no turning back, is there? I cannot ever be on only one side again.”
She faced him, let him see that truth on her face. The threat would always be there.
“You are approaching me because you want the girl. Je ne suis pas stupide.” The cheroot moved from one side of his mouth to the other so that it was now being chewed by different teeth. They were still large teeth. And yellow. The poor cheroot.
“Yes, I want the girl.” That was truth, too. She would not deny it, as he would not believe her if she tried. “But if I am going to be with Marchand, I must know what and whom I will have dealings with.”
He was quiet, contemplating her with sharp eyes and a busy mind. She would give him a moment to think. Sauntering away, she eyed the shelves leaning against a wall. Ledgers and books were squeezed side by side, multicolored stripes of leather marching all in a row. She trailed her fingers along their spines, letting the ridges rasp against her fingers.
“What do you expect me to do for you?” Lessard finally asked. Looking over her shoulder, she saw he was both intrigued and confused. “And why should I?”
“You are a businessman, through and through, are you not? Always looking for the profit, no?” There, her tone had sounded admiring. “I want to know about Marchand’s organization. In return, I will be of service to you.”
He raised a brow. “As though I do not have enough women to service me?” He swept his hand out to encompass not only the nude pictures, but the whole of his brothel.
“Not in that way.” She employed an amused smile to stop her shudder. “Using my particular talents. I have a usefulness that is desired by Marchand. I can offer the same service to you.”
“An interesting proposal.” Removing the cheroot, he examined the masticated end of it. “I have heard that you are quite good, but I have no proof.”
“Marchand’s interest in my talent should be proof enough.” Nerves jumped in her belly. He was not accepting her offer. All of this might be for naught. The risk of discovery, not following Henri’s orders, lying to Maximilian.
“Indeed, but you are as useful to him because of your position with Wycomb as you are for your skills. I have no use of your position.”
“There are still my skills.” This she had gambled on—that he would want them. She turned her hands palm up, uncurling her fingers and spreading them wide.
“There are hundreds of pickpockets in London, ma chère.” He sounded both mocking and dismissive. As though he did not believe her. This she had gambled on as well.
“Moi, I am the best.” With a bright, brilliant smile, she pulled the proof from the small thief’s pocket she’d sewn into her frilled skirt—and watched Lessard’s eyes widen in surprise. “Your watch, monsieur.”
“Mon Dieu.” He looked down at his waistcoat, now devoid of the timepiece that had hung there earlier. His eyes shot to her face. “When?”
She continue to smile but did not answer his question. Instead, from the thin slit running beneath the ribbon under her breasts, she removed two folded five-pound notes.
“I believe these are also yours, monsieur?”
His fingers flew to the pocket of his waistcoat, dug around, and came out empty.
“You are exactly as Marchand described, mademoiselle. Small and quick.” With his eyes on her face, he straightened and walked toward her. Her feet wanted to step back of their own accord, so she locked her knees. He was very tall, very large, and his face was very scarred and ugly.
His gaze did not leave hers when he held out his large, cupped palm. He did not look entirely angry or entirely pleased. She could not read that look, what with the scar running from eyebrow to lip, but she dropped the watch in his hand, laid the pound notes over it.
The notes disappeared into his pocket. The watch remained in his hand. He bounced it. A man testing the weight of something.
Or weighing his words.