Chapter Seven
“Sir.” Daggett swept open the study door.
Maximilian continued to scratch the quill against paper without looking up. Daggett never minded. They had an arrangement whereby Daggett would talk and Maximilian would pretend to listen while he worked.
Daggett cleared his throat, then went silent again. It must be important. Maximilian looked up to see his assistant sketch a short bow and usher in—“The Right Honorable Lord and Lady Highchester.”
Ah. His brother and sister-in-law.
Maximilian sighed and considered pretending he hadn’t heard their entrance, but they would enter whether he acknowledged them or not. Which, of course, they did while he was still thinking.
Lady Highchester came first, looking pale and wan and, well, gray. She often looked gray. Even when she wore something with a little more color, such as today’s pale-blue gown, she still seemed drab. Daniel Westwood, Baron Highchester, followed her, handsome and windswept, with a dimple that deceived women from Kent to Cornwall to Northumberland, and every dark alley in between.
Maximilian ought to know, as he had spent the better part of his life correcting those deceptions.
“Highchester. Lady Highchester.” Maximilian set his quill beside the document he had been translating. He required a break anyway; his eyes ached, as he’d forgotten his spectacles again. Maximilian stood, buttoning the jacket he’d loosened while he’d worked. “Welcome.”
“Hello, Maximilian.” If voice had color, Lady Highchester’s would be as gray as the rest of her. “I have come to say good-bye.”
He waited until she settled on the edge of an armchair before he sat again. “Where are you going?”
She pressed her lips together. A moment passed, then, as though she’d recovered from something, “To the country.” Her fingers tangled in the strings of her reticule. “I thought it proper to inform you of my departure.”
Highchester stepped behind her chair and set his hands on the back of it, the ruby in the family crest winking on his ring finger. “My lady is expecting again.” He looked quite bored, his gaze moving slowly around the room. Was that how one usually felt regarding the birth of one’s second child? Bored?
Maximilian did not know what to say. Felicitations on becoming a father, or felicitations to Lady Highchester for not having to further suffer her husband’s affections?
“My felicitations to Lady Highchester,” he said drily.
Her ladyship nodded her head in acceptance.
Maximilian peered at her plain face. She suddenly looked a bit green instead of gray.
“Will Highchester be retiring to the country with you?” He couldn’t decide if he wanted his brother to stay in London where Maximilian could keep an eye on him, or in the country where there were fewer scandals to become embroiled in.
“My lord will be staying here to pursue his own amusements.” Her ladyship’s voice was cold and small, her gaze becoming as dreary and defeated as the rest of her.
Above his wife and out of her sight, Highchester raised a brow. “I have a few business matters I would like to attend to before I retire to the country.” His tone was easy, but Maximilian saw the intent behind his eyes.
Something angry and hot burned in the pit of Maximilian’s stomach. Women, gambling, drink—that was Highchester’s business. It always had been. Maximilian did not need further explanation, and apparently neither did his wife.
“Excuse me. I don’t feel well. I’ll be in the carriage.” The lady stood up quickly, skirts swishing. Her reticule fell to the floor. “I shall see you in a few months, Maximilian.” She flew out of the room, leaving behind the reticule and a sense of urgency.
Highchester made a noise low in his throat that smacked of disgust. “The cow is sick all over the house. There’s a chamber pot in every room. I can’t bear to have her in London anymore.” Moving around the chair, he kicked his wife’s reticule out of his path and strode to the brandy decanter. “I’ve sent her and the boy off to the country so I can have some peace.”
Maximilian didn’t say anything. He couldn’t think of anything to say to that. An heir and an expecting wife would be a blessing. Not that Maximilian wanted either, but if a man did, they would be a blessing. At the very least, they deserved basic consideration.
“With luck I’ll have that spare and can stop doing my duty for the family line.” Highchester flipped over a snifter. “My lady is like an icicle in the bedchamber.” The handsome rakehell waved a hand in the air as though dismissing both her and any potential children.
“I would be, too, if all of London knew of my spouse’s affairs,” Maximilian said derisively. Disgust threaded through him, and he found he could no longer sit.
“Defending my wife’s honor again, brother?” Highchester raised the empty glass as if in toast. “You always do the proper thing.”
“Someone must.” Maximilian stalked to the window and set his back to Highchester, studying the carriage for signs his sister-in-law might need assistance.
“Let’s not talk about Lady Highchester when there are more enjoyable things to discuss. Carleton House, Max?” His drawl was coated with mocking admiration. Crystal clinked against crystal. “An opera dancer as well? I am truly shocked at your recent company. What has my chivalrous brother turned into?”
“I’m not—” Maximilian spun on his heel.
“That little French morsel is one I’d like to get my hands on, but she’s been kept by Wycomb for at least two years. A shame. Brandy?” He raised the decanter in Maximilian’s direction, the movement itself a question mark.
“No, it is only ten o’clock in the morning.”
“Ah, I’m a little late for my first glass.” He grinned, a lopsided, crooked grin that often allowed him to do as he chose without repercussions. “So, dear brother,” Highchester said, settling himself into the chair his wife had recently vacated. “Tell me about the delicious little dancer. Everyone noticed you returned to the ballroom with a different cravat style. Did you tup that one? If so, you’ve got more bollocks than I gave you credit for. Her protector is known to be vicious in guarding his property.”
“Highchester.” The ache behind his eyes slipped into a throbbing mess. “Mademoiselle La Fleur might be an opera dancer and Lord Wycomb’s mistress, but she is still deserving of respect.”
“I’m sure she does. A man can still want to bed her, can he not?” He raised his brandy glass in a mock salute. “Did you tup her in the hallway?”
“God’s elbows.” Temper spiked at Highchester’s disregard for her. “Of course not. Mademoiselle La Fleur retied my cravat. That is all. What of your lady wife?”
“She’s likely vomiting in the carriage, and I don’t intend to join her there. I’ve other places to go.” He settled deeper into the armchair, despite his claim. Bright-blue eyes studied Maximilian with a combination of amusement and cynicism. “What fun are you getting into, baby brother? The exquisite Mademoiselle La Fleur would not be retying your cravat if you did not have some relationship with her.”
He hated that superior stare, as though Highchester knew more than he. Well, perhaps Highchester did. More women, more gambling, more drink. If that was knowledge, then Maximilian preferred to be ignorant. There was right and wrong, duty and selfishness, and a difference between marriage vows and bachelorhood.
It was exactly this dissolution Maximilian tried to balance by being a proper gentleman. The Flower was as deserving of respect as any lady of the ton.
“Mademoiselle La Fleur is an acquaintance. A kind one who took pity on a man without a proper valet with a poorly tied cravat.” It seemed he’d been reduced to lying in order to be a gentleman. Except he could not tell Highchester that she was a spy and he, himself, a former code breaker.
“You would have me believe you didn’t imagine what you could do to her? Any man would want to bed that French strumpet.”
“I haven’t given Mademoiselle La Fleur any thought in that way.” Something niggled at the base of his skull. That wasn’t quite the truth. He’d pushed all of those thoughts away until he saw her sitting beside Prinny, laughing and glittering like a diamond in sunlight.
The Flower was with Wycomb. Wanting her would be a hopeless endeavor.
“Well, Max, I have thought about her in that way, and so have most of the men in London. The way she moves on stage…a man can’t help it.” Highchester tapped a finger against his brandy glass and grinned into it. “She’s small, but she has a magnificent pair of breasts.”
Damnation. Maximilian had no right to think about the Flower’s breasts. Yes, they were magnificent, as were her sleekly muscled legs and the flare of her hips in the breeches she wore on assignment. And her lips. Any man would imagine the taste of those lips.
Highchester sent him an satisfied smile. “You’re flushed, little brother. It’s creeping up your neck.”
Maximilian opened his mouth to say something, but not a word came out.
“Sir, sir! I have found the vulture!” Daggett skidded into the room from his adjoining office. He clutched a ledger against his chest, the binding frayed with time. As soon as his feet slid to a halt, he began to back out again, all obsequious bows. “Oh. Oh. Lord Highchester. My apologies. I forgot. So sorry, my lord. I’ll just—”
“Cheese it, Daggett.” Highchester laughed and tossed back the last of his brandy. “Max is grateful for the interruption so he doesn’t have to answer my questions.” The snifter landed on the table with a sharp snick. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten, brother.”
That last was delivered quietly and gave Maximilian a chill. It was then he saw the bright light of avarice in his brother’s eyes. I don’t want my toy, I want yours. I’m going to take it because I can. Oh, yes, he knew that look.
He also was no longer a young boy bullied by his older brother.
“Good day, Highchester.” He jerked his chin up. “If you’re lucky, the door handle won’t hit your arse on the way out.”
With a flourished bow, Highchester quit the room, whistling through his teeth.
It would not be the last he saw of his brother in the near future. He’d best warn the Flower, he supposed. Highchester could make a nuisance of himself when he wanted a particular woman, and it might cause her difficulties.
Family could be the very devil, and his particularly so.
Daggett cleared his throat.
“Hell.” He’d forgotten the vulture symbol already, damn Highchester’s lascivious predilections and foolish greed. Maximilian spun around to face his assistant. “What did you find?”
“It was before Napoleon’s hundred days and Waterloo.” Daggett rushed to the desk and dropped the ledger onto it. He riffled through pages, then pointed at a series of precise lines. “There. It is exact. This is a missive intercepted on its way to Calais with the symbol of the vulture at the bottom.”
“My spectacles.” Maximilian patted the pockets of his worn coat, to no avail. “Where are my spectacles?”
“Here.” Daggett scooped them up from the desk where they lay between a scattering of inkwells.
Maximilian looped the frame over his ears as excitement spun inside him. He leaned over the ledger and was grateful Daggett faithfully recorded every document that entered his study and every translation that went back out.
“I remember now. Orders from Paris—subversive ones, as I recall. The writer was against Napoleon.” The memory was coming back to him. The paper had been four inches by six inches. Script slanted to the left, with a narrow nib. “I didn’t understand what the drawing meant then, either, and assumed it was a signature.”
“We found out who it was, eventually.”
“We did?” He jerked his head around to look at Daggett. “Who?”
“Marchand. A French spymaster who called himself the Vulture. He was never caught. We couldn’t even determine where he was hiding.”
“Damnation.”
What had been written in the note to the Flower? Maximilian squinted slightly as he stared up at the carved ceiling, as though doing so would bring the words back into his mind.
On 13 October, go to No. 14 Hanover Square. Documents will be hidden in a copy of Sense and Sensibility by A Lady. Deliver documents to 22 Neva Street.
The implications were clear. The Flower was to deliver documents to Marchand, or at least take orders from Marchand. Ergo, either the Flower was a double agent, or she was in trouble.
Neither was something he could ignore.
Solitude and words would once again elude him due to duty and espionage. Particularly as 14 October was today. She would have been stealing the documents for the French last night, before or after Prinny’s soiree. Perhaps she’d even had the documents in her possession while she’d tied his cravat.
That sort of lie, he thought sourly, was why he’d retired from code breaking.
“Find out where she lives.”
…
The floor of Anne’s room was hard. It was also cold on Vivienne’s bottom. The surface was bare wood with some type of shining lacquer applied. Fingers tracing the grain, her eyes followed suit in the thin light from the candle stub.
A soft sigh came from the bed as Anne turned over in her sleep. Vivienne watched the rise and fall of her chest to see if she breathed easy. It was an old habit from their childhood, when she would put her hand on Anne’s back to see if she still breathed in her sleep. Their mother had done the same, she remembered.
Twenty-four hours had passed since she’d ignored the Vulture’s command. He would know by now that she did not intend to comply. He might have flown into a rage. She had not met him before, but she had heard of his temper. Even his own spies feared his wrath.
Vivienne could not predict what consequence would result from her choice. Her life might be considered forfeit—so might Anne’s life.
That Vivienne would not allow.
Anne could not come to Vivienne’s room for protection, or Henri might question why Vivienne stood watch over her. Nor could she change the locks or post a guard without Henri noticing. So Vivienne must go to Anne. She would sit on the floor of this tiny room for the remainder of her days, her back against the door and eyes on the window, if that were necessary.
Vivienne tensed as a sound filtered through the night. Fingers reached for the knife beside her, but she did not stand up. Not yet. Listening, she waited, assessing the sound. After a moment her muscles went lax. Wind, rattling a windowpane somewhere on this floor.
Closing her eyes against the wavering candlelight, she leaned her head against the door, but not to sleep. Rest would not come. She wanted to listen to the sounds of the night and bring them into her. If she knew them, she would know one that was out of place.
Wind. A creak of the floors as the house settled. The tick of the clock beside the bed. The footman snoring in another room down the hall. Then, loud against the backdrop of house sounds, a shush of feet on floorboard. Not in the hallway behind her, however.
Beside the bed.
Vivienne did not move. She kept her back against the door, her eyes closed, and listened to those soft footsteps growing faintly louder.
“Oh, Vivienne.” Anne’s voice was sad. It should not be so sad.
“Go back to bed.” Still she did not open her eyes. Buttocks numb now from the floor, skin chilled from the cool night air, but she would not leave until morning. “Go.”
“Not if you are sitting awake,” Anne said softly. “I will not be able to sleep.”
Soft fabric brushed against Vivienne’s ankle. No doubt it was the hem of Anne’s shift. She opened her eyes to observe a pair of bare feet peeking from beneath a hem of thin cotton swirling through the pale light of the candle stub. Yes, the dratted girl was standing right in front of her.
“Go to bed,” Vivienne said again and straightened, glaring at Anne. “I am not sitting awake, like so, while you also sit awake. It is absurd.”
Anne was young enough still to pout, her lip pushing out. “No. You’re worried someone will come for me because you made them angry. You’re protecting me like you used to with Da.” Thin arms crossed over her chest, and though her tone had been petulant, she also sounded stubborn. “I shall sit with you.”
Anne settled on the floor beside Vivienne and drew her legs up beneath her shift.
“Obstinate girl.” Vivienne would have done the same. The fact squeezed a little fist around her heart, and that fist clouded her judgment. “At least put slippers on so your feet will not be cold.”
Her sister ignored her.
The wind still rattled the windowpane. The snoring footman did not cease his snoring. And so it was the two of them. Alone in the dark and on a cold floor.
“I love you, Anne.”
“I love you, too.”
A thick braid bumped against her arm as Anne laid her head on Vivienne’s shoulder. Toying with the tail of the plait, she ran her fingers through soft, freshly washed hair. Vivienne, too, had washed her hair that night. It was just as soft, though bound tightly at her neck so it could not be used as a weapon against her.
A wry chuckle slipped from Vivienne’s lips.
“What is funny?”
“If we meet our deaths this night, we will at least have clean hair.”
Anne snickered, a little-girl sound that warmed Vivienne’s heart. Another sound followed, unobtrusive, like the swish of dead leaves beneath one’s feet.
There were no leaves in Anne’s room.