Chapter Forty-Five
“What now?” Rain sluiced down Maximilian’s head and face. He scowled at Vivienne, then up at the gray dawn sky, then at the town house Jones had just disappeared into. “It’s damn wet out here.”
She wanted to smile, but it did not come. There was too much sadness and confusion and uncertainty in her, though all of it was tempered with joy for Anne. She was safe, ensconced in Jones’s town house after a hot bath, and was even now being provided nourishing food and a guard to watch her. Vivienne could not ask fate for more.
Except, perhaps, she could ask for Maximilian.
Only she could not have him. If Henri lived and she were not prosecuted for treason, she would never be permitted to be with Maximilian. Her assignment was to be an opera dancer mistress, and she could not be in love with another man.
If Henri did not live, then she would be tried for murder.
So she looked down the street because she did not know what else to do. The rows of houses were dreary and gray in the early-morning rain, their normally bright surfaces dull without the sunshine. It did not matter. She had business she must attend to. It was only hours ago the Vulture had been brought down, hours in which Anne had needed care and reports had been necessary.
“Now, I speak with Henri’s spymaster, Sir Charles. My spymaster, also.” She was exhausted and heartsore and felt as gray as the row of houses. “Then, if I am allowed to continue in my position, I will bathe the catacombs and your liniment and the Queen’s Bathtub from my skin. I will go to rehearsals and performances as Vivienne La Fleur. And I will wait for instructions.” Rain blurred the street. Or perhaps it was tears.
“And what of me? Of us?” Maximilian gripped her shoulders and spun her to face him. Through her wet jacket she felt the warmth and strength in his hands. His arms would be just as warm and strong. She wanted to step into those arms. To take comfort from him.
“I don’t know.” Her heart ached because of it.
“I’m not leaving you.” Very fierce words from her scholar, accompanied by even fiercer eyes. “I don’t care what your spymaster commands.”
“I cannot—Maximilian.” She shook her head. Her heart beat frantically against her rib cage, a bird fighting to be free. “Gainsaying Sir Charles would be insubordination. More, he could take away my freedom. My life, even.”
“Then run. Go away.” Desperation layered over his voice. It was a sound she had not heard before.
“I cannot. If I leave without permission, I will be hunted for treason. And—I am a spy.” His desperation echoed in her own heart. She shivered inside her wet clothing and tugged her cap lower to shield her face from the cold rain. “I am the Flower, Maximilian.”
“Confound it. Can’t you stop being a spy?” He leaned down, very close, to look at her with hazel eyes colored by rioting green and gold spears. He was a kiss away from her, and yet a world of obstacles stood between them. “We could go anywhere. I can find work. I can support you well enough.”
“Support me?” Joy battered one side of her as she thought of lying beside him each night, living beside him each day. Confusion battered the other side of her. “It is not support. It is not money. I am a spy. I cannot be anything else—I do not even know how.”
“Damnation. I know you can’t, but I want you to be something else.” Frustration growled out of him. Then, with a sigh, the frustration slipped into the rain and was gone. He leaned down, set his forehead against hers. “I want you to be something different so everything will be easy. Then you could be with me always and surprise me by sneaking into every room of my house.”
You could be with me always…
A great rush of deep love swamped her. Not just swamped her, engulfed her. Consumed her. His arms were around her—if they had not been, she might have fallen.
“Yet, if you weren’t a spy,” he continued softly, “you wouldn’t be my Flower.”
His lips seized hers. Possession and fury and despair, all of these melded together and became Maximilian’s mouth. He tasted so male, and his lips were cool from the rain. She met them hungrily. Hot tears that mingled with the cold rain on her cheeks.
This might be their last kiss. She could not see the future and did not know what came next. But she could hold onto him and grip the shoulders that had become so dear to her. She could let her heart be overwhelmed by this man who always stood beside her and never in front, who knew all of her secrets.
She could love him for whatever moments they had together.
Someone cleared their throat.
Vivienne sprang back as embarrassment filled her. Sir Charles stood on the front steps, greatcoat catching water droplets and his walking stick dull in the gray light. He was her spymaster—and he was not pleased. The coldness in his brown eyes was a look she knew. It did not mean good things would be happening.
Often, this look meant someone died. Sometimes they died by the sword tucked into the walking stick he carried now.
“Flower. Mr. Westwood. I expect you to come inside so we don’t have to stand in the rain during our discussion.” Sir Charles spun on his heel and disappeared into the hallway.
She must follow. Even if her feet wanted to run in another direction. So, she followed. Maximilian’s hand slipped into hers as they mounted the steps. His hand was solid and strong. An anchor, just when she needed it.
Except he was not invited into Sir Charles’s office.
“I would like a private word with the Flower first.” Sir Charles shed his greatcoat, then propped his walking stick in a corner of the hall.
“Sir,” Maximilian began, running a hand through wet hair, heedless of water sprinkling onto the tiled floor or the spikes of russet and mahogany he created.
“A moment, Westwood, to debrief my agent.” Sir Charles’s tone rose, as did the command in the words.
“Maximilian.” Vivienne spoke softly, hoping that she conveyed confidence and not the nerves pinging inside her. If her spymaster asked for privacy, she was duty bound to obey. “A few minutes, please.”
She imagined Maximilian’s teeth would suffer some from his frustration, but he nodded in agreement.
“She’ll be safe enough.” Spinning on his heel, Sir Charles strode down the hall and toward his office, where Jones stood silent in the doorway. “When I call, send in Westwood,” he said as he passed Jones and disappeared into the room.
Vivienne followed, because there was no choice. Jones shut the paneled door quietly as her boots found the thick rug in the center of the room.
Alors. She was alone.
“Sir.” Vivienne straightened her shoulders as she faced Sir Charles over his desk. She also raised her chin. Just a little. He might strip her of her position. Prison, even, was possible. Death—she hoped that was not in her future. Whatever her punishment, she would meet it on even ground.
“I’ve had an interesting talk with Lord Henry Wycomb.”
Ah. Then Henri was not dead. “Oui.” She did not know what else to say.
“I also had a very brief conversation with Jones.” His eyes were colder, perhaps, than they had been before. He did not shift in his chair as he spoke, but regarded her with steady eyes.
“Oui.” Her belly flip-flopped. A fish on the line and out of water.
“It seems you’ve been working on your own these last weeks.”
“Yes, sir.” This was not a good beginning to the conversation. It was very one-sided, this conversation.
“Why did you not approach Wycomb about Marchand?”
A blunt question, and perhaps it deserved a blunt answer. She would have to reveal her past in any event. “The girl Marchand abducted, Anne—”
“Yes.” Sir Charles’s eyes did not reveal thoughts, yet he must have thought something as his brows rose most high.
Vivienne swallowed hard. Confession was difficult, so she spoke quickly. “She is my sister.”
“I know.” He said this as if waiting for something more, as if this was not a critical piece of information.
“You know?” Shock sent her reeling so she had to plant her feet on the rug.
“Of course. Lord Wycomb brought you into our organization. You don’t think I would allow that without a thorough knowledge of your background, do you? I know of your parents, their deaths, and your youth as a pickpocket.” Sir Charles reached for the bell pull near his desk and tugged. “I must still ask, why did you not speak with Wycomb when Marchand approached you?”
She could not answer. The earth had shaken beneath her. “I have been keeping Anne a secret for as long as—but does everyone know?”
“No. All of my agents’ histories are kept private.”
“I thought no one knew, and I did not want Henri to force her into espionage as he did me.” She gripped her hands together. A very un-spy-like gesture, but she needed to hold onto something. Anything. “To protect her, I brought her into the household as a servant.”
“Which I was also aware of. More, Wycomb couldn’t have made her an agent without my approval.” Sir Charles frowned as he steepled his fingertips and regarded her over them. “What do you mean, ‘force her into espionage as he did me’?”
“I—” Confusion rattled around insider her. “Being a spy. A dancer. I did not have a choice. It was either prison or death for thievery, or work with Henri. This is what he told me.” Sir Charles would understand her choices if he knew of her past.
Or perhaps not. His frown became most angry. “Espionage is a choice, Vivienne. One doesn’t put their life in jeopardy without being given the choice.” There was something low and dangerous in his voice. “You should have had one.”
“Prison, death, or espionage, sir. Those were the choices Henri gave me. And I chose espionage.” She did not regret it, until now, when she wanted Maximilian instead.
He did not speak for a moment. This silence seemed loud and full of words she could not hear properly.
“So you did,” he finally said. “And in recent weeks you lied to the entire operation and played a double agent, thereby delivering coded instructions for the assassination of our future king.”
She thought about his words. There was no error there. “Yes. This is so.”
“And somehow or another, you and the code breaker found one of the Vulture’s strongholds, rescued the girl, and, along with Jones, felled the Vulture and two of his agents.”
“Yes. This is also true.” She was not certain their actions outweighed the delivery of an assassination note.
Sir Charles continued to regard her over his hands. She wanted to squirm. A worm on a hook now, instead of the flopping fish.
The door behind her opened. She did not turn. It would be poor decorum to turn away when one’s spymaster was inspecting one. Sir Charles lifted his gaze to the door and gestured for someone to come forward.
It was Maximilian. She knew from the beat of the footsteps on the floor and his quiet, steady breath. From the awareness that shifted over her skin. He came to stand beside her, though a step behind as he had in the Queen’s Bathtub. With her, but not in front of her. She wanted to look at him. Perhaps they would share a glance. A message. One of those moments when two souls met in time and space, just before they were to be separated.
She did not look at him. It would break her.
“I owe you a debt of gratitude, Flower, for bringing in Marchand.” Sir Charles did not sound thankful, she decided. He was still irritated, but perhaps gratitude would not end in prison. “While the result was more than acceptable, however, I cannot condone your methods.”
“She didn’t act alone, sir.” Maximilian’s voice was hard and sure, as solid as the body standing behind her. “I was aware of what she was doing.”
“I do not condone that, either.” Sir Charles stood, his sturdy frame as nearly as broad as the chair. “Westwood, you chose to retire. More, you’re a code breaker, not an agent in the field.”
Maximilian’s body tensed, his breath moving in and out in a controlled rhythm. The quickest of glances revealed a muscle twitching in his jaw, but he did not speak.
“However,” Sir Charles continued, “the two of you succeeded. I won’t say any more about it—except that there will be no more of this. For the foreseeable future, neither of you will act without supervision. Your activities will be watched, and you will not work together again, is that understood? No further contact.”
Vivienne’s entire body jerked. Her hand reached for Maximilian’s, then dropped away before she made contact. “Sir,” she began.
“Do not question me, Flower.” He held up a hand to stop her. “Count yourself lucky I don’t strip you from service. Prinny believes the note was nothing more than the words printed there, so you are still of use. Lynley will disappear quietly. He’s already been arrested, and will be dealt with. As for you, Flower, reassignment. Lord Wycomb will no longer be your commander.”
Something rolled off her shoulders. A large, heavy, debilitating, fearsome rock simply rolled from her shoulders to plop onto the floor at her feet.
“He will not be my trainer? My commander?”
“No.”
A dry throat was not conducive to speaking. Nor was the relief tearing through her. Still, she found enough of her voice to whisper. “The girl? Anne?”
“She may stay with you. She will be guarded for her safety as well as ours—and watched as well. Is that understood?”
Watched, so that Anne did not give away any secrets. Vivienne understood the danger. “Yes, thank you.” She wiped very damp palms on the pantaloons she’d not had an opportunity to change. “And prison, sir? The gallows?” The words barely passed her lips. “Henri said I would—” She could not speak more. The fear was too great.
Maximilian took her hand, its wide, strong palm giving her strength she might not have had on her own. Her knees—they were a little unsteady just now.
“Whatever you’ve done in your past, you will not be prosecuted. I’m not sure the law would allow it at this late date, regardless.” Sir Charles’s voice softened to a tone she was not used to hearing from him. “A girl ought not to be prosecuted for feeding her family.”
She opened her mouth, closed it. Her response could not be put into words. Sometimes emotion did not have a name. Maximilian, Anne, her future. Everything in her life seemed poised on the edge of a knife blade.
“There is more, sir. Maximilian and I—Monsieur Westwood and I, we are—we have been—”
“Very awkward conversation, sir,” Maximilian broke in with the sensible pragmatism that made him unfit for drawing rooms but ideal for a spy with little time for games. “We’re lovers.”
Sir Charles’s eyes closed as he sighed. Perhaps he needed a moment to assimilate this truth. “I guessed,” he said drily. “But thank you for putting words to your actions.”
“I love her, sir.” Maximilian’s voice was firm and full of the assurance she needed to still the galloping of her heart and rushing of her blood. Her scholar planted his feet in the carpet and became an immovable mountain.
“Yes, I’m beginning to realize that as well.” Sir Charles leaned on the hand still on the desktop and rubbed the center of his forehead with other. Brown eyes flicked open again, and she could not decide if he was amused or still irritated. “I don’t know what to do with you, Flower.”
She had to make her stand. Her hand was still tucked into Maximilian’s. She looked up at his profile. It was handsome and lean, with frowning brows and full lips and the grumbling beginning to make its way to the surface. Oh, how she loved this man, for all of the foolish reasons such as paper folding and scowling at her and standing behind her.
“Sir, you said before that everyone should have a choice.” She looked at her spymaster. Breathing deep, she drew on whatever courage the fates had given her. “I want to have that choice. I want to continue as a spy, sir, but only on my terms.”
“Demands, Flower?” A soft statement. A dangerous one.
“Yes. Demands. I am a good spy, sir. I am a good thief.”
“I don’t disagree. You’ve ferreted out information where others have failed because of those quick fingers of yours.” Sir Charles came around the edge of the desk. It was a little terrifying. He was sturdy and wide—and very authoritative.
“Dancing, stealing. These things I will continue to do.” Sometimes, simple words could require digging for courage. She squeezed Maximilian’s hand. It was most comforting to simply have him beside her. “I will not accept a protector. I am not a whore, though Henri nearly made me one, so I will play the dancer and continue as a spy.” Her heart rose to her throat. “But I will be with Maximilian.”
“If I refuse?” Low words hung in the air, disturbingly weighty. Sir Charles raised an expectant brow. “What then, Flower?”
Maximilian did not move even the slightest inch, as if the fibers and muscles of his body were waiting for hope to release them. Breathing deep, raising her chin, she gathered herself for the storm.
“I will leave the service. Forever.”
Maximilian did not wait for an answer from Sir Charles. He swung her around, all of his male body proving how large he was. He gathered her in, arms around her, lips devouring hers. She could not move, or think, or even fight him.
She did not want to.
“Damnation, Westwood, let her be,” Sir Charles said, words both demanding and resigned.
It was a moment before Maximilian’s lips left hers. Another before she could gather herself to meet Sir Charles’s gaze, as she was still wrapped in Maximilian’s arms.
“New orders, Flower.” Sir Charles thumped his fist on the tabletop, hard. “You will report to me. Directly to me. Is that understood? I want to know everything you do. I obviously can’t trust you even a few feet from me.”
“I would not—”
“You will have a new cover. You will continue as the opera dancer. I can’t let you be without a protector in the eyes of society, or the dandies of London will be standing on your doorstep tomorrow. So for now, you will have a new protector.” Sir Charles narrowed his eyes. “Mr. Westwood.”
Maximilian’s arms jerked, then squeezed her hard. She could not breathe. Maximilian, too, held his breath. She heard this with her body as much as her ears.
“Sir?” Maximilian asked.
“I know you chose to retire.” The commander paused, drawing a long breath. “If you are to be with the Flower, you will need to make yourself available to the government on a limited basis, if only to stay abreast of her assignments and whereabouts.”
Maximilian did not grumble, but she supposed that to do so risked all they’d just gained. Instead, he simply pulled her against a body coiled with tension and breathed, “If those are the conditions I must accept in order to be with her, then I agree.”
Sir Charles nodded once, a short, grave acknowledgment of Maximilian’s agreement before he pinned Vivienne with his gaze. “Your duties will be modified as well, to befit your cover, Flower. You won’t have access to the same individuals without Wycomb, but I have uses enough for your quick fingers.” Sir Charles pointed at her, his finger no less dangerous than an arrow. “By all that’s holy, don’t lie to me.”
“Yes, sir.” Could one’s heart hold so much joy without bursting?
“Now, I have a foreign secretary to brief, a French spy to question, and rumors to spread of the good Bishop Carlisle’s untimely death by footpads. Good day.” He nodded to Vivienne, again to Maximilian, and strode out of the room.
She continued to stare at the place he’d left. Maximilian let out a long, low breath. She looked up at him, her mouth opening to speak, but she did not know precisely what to say.
The slightest sound made her look over her shoulder.
“Jones.” This man, the brother of her heart, had given her the gift of time and put his own career at risk. “You did not leave us,” she said, a grim amusement welling in her. “You followed the entire time, did you not?”
“Of course.” The smile moving across that serious face held the same grim amusement. “I would not be completing my assignment if I did not pursue my quarry.”
“Thank you, Jones.” It was Maximilian who spoke the words, the arms around her loosening now. “If you had not, we likely would not have prevailed.”
“Oui. Merci,” she echoed, though there was so much more to be said between her and Jones. Words that went back a decade or more, through friendship and lovemaking, training and knife work.
“Be well,” he said softly. “Both of you.” Then Jones faded into the recesses of the town house, perfectly silent in that way he had.
And they were alone.
“I’m not certain what happened here, but I think you would have given up espionage for me.” Maximilian flicked eyes not quite brown, not quite green, toward her.
“That is correct.” She grinned at the dazed expression on his lean features. “I love you, my Maximilian.”
“I also think I was just ordered to be your new protector.” Large hands took her shoulders, gently, as if he were afraid she would disappear.
“More or less, yes, I think so.”
“Well. It’ll be interesting being the protector of a spy. Messy business, I’m sure.” There was no scowl between his eyes, only a smile. He pulled her in, pressed his lips against hers. “Does that mean I can have my way with you whenever I want?”
Her heart lifted. Desire tingled a path from mouth to toes as she pressed her body to his. “More or less, yes, I think so.”
“Good. Then espionage has its consolations.”