Chapter Forty-Two
One foot in front of the other.
Yes, this would take her somewhere, if she just continued. One step, two steps, three steps. Somehow, her journey would end.
She was not exactly certain where. Or how fast she was moving. The star-studded skies had given way to a rain-soaked dawn that pelted her with tiny, cold daggers of water. Uncomfortable on her back, but relief on her hot and throbbing face.
The feet below her continued to move. One in front of the other, in a rhythmic pattern to match her heartbeat. This beat—it also matched the throbbing of her face, and even the ache in her belly. But she had survived. She had faced Henri and won.
It was a hollow victory. The cost might be her freedom, and Anne, and—
She looked up and into the cold rain. A drop fell into her lashes and clung there. Blinking it away, she stared through the gray morning light at Maximilian’s front door.
Not intending to arrive here, she had done so nonetheless. A moment later she was huddled in the small threshold between Maximilian’s front door and the steps. She was afraid to step inside, and just as afraid to leave. Yet there was nowhere else she could go—even Jones could not help her now.
She leaned against the door, let the solid weight of it press against her back. The thought of meeting Maximilian’s eyes again was terrifying. What would she say? He had turned away from her because she had not given him the truth.
Her chest ached. Tears clogged her lungs, pressed against her heart. She needed to move. To hide or run, but she could not. Her ribs ached. They were not broken, she thought, but they were bruised. She tasted blood on her lip and knew it was swollen. Every part of her was abused and sore.
She slid to the ground on Maximilian’s front step, set her forehead on her knees—her last uninjured body parts—and let the sobs take her.
The door to the town house opened. Thank the fates she was sitting now and not leaning against that solid door. She would have fallen onto the front rug. She was humiliated enough without that.
But she still had to look up at Maximilian with her tearstained face.
His scowl was ferocious, and very, very dear.
“God’s teeth, you are loud when you cry. It’s also past breakfast, I’m hungry, and it’s raining.” He reached out his hand to help her stand. Strong, dependable fingers, there for the taking. “Come in, Flower. You look like hell.”
Just like that. No hesitation.
Her heart filled nearly to bursting, expanding and expanding until, suddenly, there was nothing inside her but love for him. Terrifying, frightening love.
His hand was the most comforting thing she’d ever held onto—an offer of assistance, given without reserve, though with exasperated affection and scowling eyebrows. This was her Maximilian.
She wanted to cry all over again.
The door closed behind her, shutting out the rain and the day. She started to speak, and she was sure the words were important, but Maximilian’s arms were around her, drawing her in. He was so male, so large. So comforting. Burrowing into him, she tried to hold back the horrible sobs rising in her chest.
He rested his cheek against the top of her head. “What has happened?” he murmured. “Your face is damn near ugly this morning.”
She almost laughed, but not quite. “Everything has gone wrong. I didn’t know where else to go.”
“Then this seems like a good place, mademoiselle.” From down the hall, Daggett cleared his throat.
She raised her face from Maximilian’s shoulder to eye the inimitable Daggett. Dressed with careful precision, he carried a single candle to ward away the rain.
“You will not chase me out?” she asked.
“No, mademoiselle.” He stopped, cleared his throat again. “You did come in through the front door, after all.”
“You’ve given Daggett fits coming in the windows, Vivienne.” Maximilian’s lips pressed against her hair, softly. The sweetness of his gesture made her soul shiver. “As you’ve used the door—and there’s that ugly face, of course—I know something’s wrong. Daggett, bring liniment and something cold for her eye. That thing is going to swell shut soon. Vivienne, into the study.”
And so she was in the study with a piece of raw beef pressed against her eye, her shirt and coat removed, and Maximilian spreading liniment over the bruises blooming along her ribs. His fingers did not linger over her torso or breasts, though they were bared for him. Still, he looked with that dark intensity that so excited her.
She was so tired, so bone-weary and exhausted, that she let him look and felt only the stirrings of desire.
“Why did you let me in, Maximilian? After I angered you?”
“I can be angry at you and still care, Vivienne.” With efficient movements he spread the liniment over the first and second ribs as she reclined on the chaise. “Just like I can desire you when you are promised to another man and respect you despite you being a spy. You are different than your actions. Now, what has happened?” he asked again.
“Henri believes I am a double agent.”
“Are you?” No emotion in those words or change in his expression. Just slow circles rubbing liniment into her flesh.
“Close enough. I delivered a letter for Lessard to Viscount Lynley earlier tonight, right under Prinny’s nose at a masquerade. I could not read it, but Mrs. Asher could. It was about women and gambling and money owed.”
He was silent and his gentle touch did not change, causing almost no additional pain on the already painful bruises. Cool air raised gooseflesh and puckered her nipples. Maximilian’s eyes flickered up to her breasts, then back down to the bruises. Still, he did not speak.
“It was coded,” she continued, watching him carefully. The muscle in his jaw jumped. “It seemed innocuous, but it was coded. Prinny found the note, and I must have been suspected, as I was recognized at the masquerade. The letter was decoded—”
“I decoded it.” The words were harsh, almost guttural, but his fingers were still tender in their ministrations. “Wycomb brought it to me. It wasn’t about money or gambling, but an offer of money to assassinate Prinny. It also indicated you would be the assassin’s courier. Lynley, by the way, has already been arrested.”
“Mon Dieu.” It was true, then, Henri’s charge of treason. Emotion churned in her as she stared at Maximilian. Anger, though not at Maximilian, and a thin trail of horror at her own actions. “I did not know.”
“No?”
“I did not. I only had until midnight to deliver the note for Lessard, and it was already dusk. If I succeeded, then Lessard would tell me where Anne was being held.” Vivienne pressed her fingers to her eyes. “I was afraid to come here to have it decoded first.”
“I would’ve done it, Vivienne, even if I were angry with you.” He did not look at her face, but took her hand and examined her knuckles. They were split and sore, and he began to rub the liniment there as well.
“Yes.” She should have known this, but hurt and fear had colored that knowledge. Now the damage could not be undone. “If Prinny knows I delivered an order for his assassination, it is too late for me.”
“Without doubt.” Most matter-of-fact, her Maximilian, even when death hovered over her.
Her Maximilian. He still knelt before her, the mouth she so enjoyed turned down in a frown as he studied her torso. She almost expected him to put on his spectacles, he was so focused on assessing her injuries.
Love burned fiercely in her, hot and bright.
He feathered his fingers over the darkest of her bruises. “How did these injuries happen, Vivienne?”
She looked down at his thumb. Ink stained the tip of it. The dark blot made her heart ache. All he wanted was to be left alone with his books and ledgers and words, but she had drawn him in, again and again.
“Henri confronted me—”
“Your commander did this?” Oh, yes, now there was temper in his words, but not in the rough pads of his fingers. They had ceased their circles and began to caress her, a trail of fingers over her belly.
“In his eyes, I committed treason. Worse, I betrayed him.” In all other eyes it would appear the same. “I fought him. Perhaps, even, I have killed him.”
“Good.” The corners of Maximilian’s mouth turned up in a grin that was both satisfied and bloodthirsty.
“I did not stop to check, or to finish the work. It would be murder.”
“You could’ve checked to see if he was breathing, at least.” He raised a brow. “Seems simple enough.”
“Whether he kills me today or another day is not at issue.”
A breeze fluttered over her cheek. A soft one.
Suddenly they were not alone in the room. Jones loomed over them, one pistol pointed carefully at Vivienne, another at Maximilian. His eyes held nothing. She could not read them, even a little.
“It might be at issue,” he said.
Maximilian pushed up from the floor, spinning to shield her from view so that both pistols were trained on him. “She’s not decent,” he barked.
“Aye,” Jones agreed, stepping to the side so he could see her again. Raindrops glinted on his shoulders. “At least I know she’s not hiding any knives under her jacket. I only have to worry about the ones in her boots.”
Vivienne knew that moving would likely result in her death. So she continued to lie there, reclining, naked from the waist up. Jones did not once look at her breasts. He only saw her face, held her gaze.
Even when aiming to kill a fellow spy—a suspected traitor—Jones was a gentleman.
Maximilian lunged forward with a fiercely protective growl. Jones snapped his head around to aim a sharp glance at Maximilian, the pistol following suit.
“Don’t move, Westwood. I won’t hesitate to kill her if you move again.”
Maximilian stopped, though his body seemed to quiver with the need to attack. “Let her dress, at least.”
Jones was silent, keeping his gaze on Maximilian, though Vivienne knew he was taking in every element of the room. “Give her your shirt.”
Gritting his teeth, Maximilian complied. Coat, waistcoat, cravat, watch fob—all dropped to the floor before he shrugged out of his starched linen shirt. He held it out for Vivienne. “I had a pistol in there earlier today,” he muttered. “Pity I removed it.”
She accepted the shirt with a small smile. “Thank you.” It was said to both Jones and Maximilian.
And perhaps fate, as well. If she were to die, it would be clean and quick and at the hand of a friend.
“How did you know I would be here?” She pulled the shirt over her head. It held Maximilian’s scent and was soft against her skin. It was also very large.
“I know you, Vivienne.” Jones’s smile was dry and humorless. “And you officially became my assignment yesterday. I simply hadn’t yet determined what you were doing.”
She paused, the shirt halfway down her torso. “I was already under investigation.” It was not a question, but a statement.
“What trouble have you found yourself in, Flower?” Jones asked softly. “I wouldn’t have believed you could commit treason.”
Maximilian opened his mouth to speak. She quickly shook her head. His lips snapped shut again, but she could see it cost him as fists clenched and strong, bare shoulders tensed.
“It’s complicated, Jones.” It was better, now, with the shirt on, but she still felt naked without a weapon in her hand. Most disconcerting to stare down the barrel of a pistol with no method of defense. “I did not know the note was coded.”
“You delivered it.”
“I will not lie.” She met the gaze of the quiet boy she’d once made love with and hoped he’d grown into a just man. “Yes, I did.”
“Then I have to take you in, Vivienne.” Jones’s expression did not change, though his voice lowered. “I am sorry for it.”
“Wait. Wait.” Maximilian put his hands up, trying once again to step between them. This time, Jones did not stop him. “She didn’t do it on purpose. She didn’t know it was coded.”
“She still had dealings with Lessard that were not an order from her commander.” He looked back at Vivienne. She had not noticed the lines on his face before. They seemed very deep just now. “I gave you what warning I could, but I can’t let those connections continue.”
“No.” Could she kill Jones in exchange for her life? He was outnumbered. Her knives were in her boots, her pistol not far in the bags she had brought. Except the very idea hurt her heart—though she would have no choice but injury or death if she wanted to find Anne. “Do not think I will go easily.”
“I wouldn’t expect it of you, but if you balk, Westwood dies.” Jones jerked his head toward Maximilian, knowing, of course, that he would be her weakness.
“I’m not letting you take her.” Maximilian, her brave scholar, seemed very fierce now. He stepped forward, a savagery in his voice Vivienne had never heard.
“The same goes for you, Westwood. If you try to stop me, I’ll kill her outright.”
Silence vibrated in the room, gossamer thin, but still as vast as an ocean.
“Tell me why, Vivienne.” Jones was serious, almost sad. “I’m searching for a reason.”
“I—” If she told him of Anne, her final secret might be revealed to all of the agents. But perhaps, if she failed and was killed, Jones would need to know that Anne might be turned against England. “Marchand has taken my sister.”
A long pause, then, “The servant girl.”
“You know?” She straightened, incredulous. That he should know—how was this possible?
He was slow to answer, as though weighing very heavy words. “I suspected the girl had a relationship with you. Your cover was deep; you had become the Flower so long ago, I couldn’t be sure, but I guessed. The housekeeper?”
“A neighbor from my childhood.” And the closest person to a mother since she was eleven years old.
“So Marchand has taken the girl, and you are working for him to get her back?”
“In a way. My goal is not to work with Marchand. It is only to find him. If I find Marchand, then I find Anne.” She looked at Maximilian. She would not implicate him. “I have delivered messages, but I read them to inform our side if need be—it is why I asked about Jean-Phillippe Citron.” She paused, breathed carefully. “I would not betray England.”
“That is not entirely truthful.” Maximilian stepped beside her, set a wide, strong hand on her shoulder. He squeezed it. “I was reading the messages. I knew what Vivienne was doing.”
“Maximilian.” She could save him if he did not say the wrong words. “Do not be an idiote.”
“Idiot or no, Vivienne.” He looked down at her, eyes grimly resolute. “I read the letters for you. I knew.”
She almost groaned out her anger. Pressing her fingers against her eyes, she closed them a moment. “Then you, too, will hang for treason, Maximilian.”
“That’ll hurt, I suppose.”
His hand slid down her shoulder to brush her waist. He pulled her in, settled her against him. She should push him away, but just now her body would not obey her brain. And so they faced a considering Jones, locked together.
“Do you know where the girl is?” Jones asked, after a very long moment. He carefully set one pistol down on Maximilian’s desk, moving his hand away. It was a sign of trust. A sign that he would not attack. Yet. He retained the other pistol, though he lowered it now.
Hope clogged her lungs, but words tumbled out nonetheless. “I have an idea. A person is inquiring and will give me an answer soon. I am close, Jones. Very close to finding Marchand.”
Once again silence vibrated in the air. This moment—it could decide her life or death.
“Find her, then.” Jones uncocked the remaining pistol and shoved it into the waist of his trousers. “Quickly. You can’t stay at Westwood’s. There are others that will look for you here. You have to go underground.”
Relief flooded her. She sprang for her coat and shirt and the knives secreted there, all thought of bruises and aches gone.
“I’m going with you.” Maximilian spoke the words as if they were a command.
She turned toward him, opened her mouth to tell him no, she would be faster on her own. But he stood there, broad shouldered and without a shirt, appearing as immovable as a mountain.
He had not hesitated to remove his shirt for her, or to step in front of her. He had not hesitated to draw her into his arms that night, even knowing what she had done. And he did not hesitate now.
His green and gold eyes met hers, held.
“Jones,” she said, not looking away from that steady, strong gaze. “How long do I have?”
“I can’t give you more than a day. Tomorrow morning, I have to bring you in.”