Chapter Nine
Maximilian had quite a few words for the Flower.
Never mind that it was midnight. After midnight. Maximilian flipped open his pocket watch, turning it so the carriage lamp shone on the surface. After one in the morning, even.
Well, she was a dancer and a mistress. No doubt she was accustomed to late nights. Besides, it had taken Daggett this long to unearth her direction. Now Maximilian was riding in his brother’s cast-off, second-rate carriage, intent on confronting her.
In the middle of the night, it seemed.
The clip-clop of horses’ hooves competed with the pattering rain. He smoothed down the front of his greatcoat, then clasped his hands together in his lap while deciding what to say when he arrived.
Are you a double agent?
That might result in his death, likely by pistol or knife. She was no doubt competent with both. He had no experience with knives himself. Marksmanship was a skill he possessed, of course, having honed it during the war—though he was no longer accustomed to carrying a weapon, despite occasionally practicing at Manton’s.
He would have to rectify that if he were to continue having dealings with spies. As he would in the next few minutes.
Perhaps he should begin by asking her, Are you committing treason?
Surely one did not open a conversation in such a way. It seemed a bit harsh. Maybe he should begin the conversation with some pleasantries.
How was your most recent performance? Did you dance well? Oh, and are you committing treason?
Perhaps that was too pleasant.
The carriage jerked as the footman-turned-coachman slowed the horses. Maximilian didn’t wait for the steps to be set down, but jumped from the carriage on the wet cobblestones. Tilting his head back, he squinted through a light rain at the facade of Mademoiselle La Fleur’s town house. Every window was dark and silent. Not even a whisper of life.
She was probably sleeping. Or gone. Or—devil take it—entertaining her protector.
He should not have come. Waiting until morning would have been prudent.
“Do not move.” The Flower’s voice was low and deadly. The click of the pistol cocking certainly didn’t ease the menace he heard there. How the bloody hell had she sneaked up behind him?
Something poked against his back, and he assumed it was the pistol. The powder would be wet and useless in this rain. Probably. Possibly.
He really ought to have brought some type of weapon. It was a mistake he would not make again.
“Mademoiselle La Fleur.”
“Monsieur Westwood?” Surprise bounced along the edge of her sensual voice.
“What are you doing on the bloody street instead of inside the house?” he asked. They would both be soaked through in another minute.
“I’m looking for—no. It is not important.” The pistol pressed firmly into his vertebrae. “Why are you here?”
He swallowed hard. “I know who the Vulture is.”
The pistol jerked against his back as she gasped. If she pulled the trigger, she would sever his spine.
Time spun out to nothing but sight and sound and breath as he waited for her to make a choice. The jingle of harness, rain trapped in his lashes, light slanting over the walkway from a neighboring house. The clean scent of the Flower, made stronger by the rain. All were more intense in that moment.
“Sir?” The driver called from atop the carriage.
The word spurred the Flower into action, and the pistol eased away from his spine. “Send your driver away,” she whispered. “Come inside.” Then she flitted into a rain-soaked shadow, leaving him seemingly alone on the street.
He had half a mind to step back into his carriage and go home. A fire waited for him there. Work, too. Dry clothes and brandy. Any of them were better than standing on the street in the middle of the night, rain dripping from the brim of his hat.
Yet he couldn’t ignore the fact that the Vulture was sending the Flower coded messages.
“Take the carriage home, John.” He cursed himself even as the words came out of his mouth. “I’ll hire a hackney on my return.”
“Are you certain, sir?”
Yes, he was bloody well certain. He couldn’t leave now. In too deep, Maximilian, his conscience said. “Go home, John.”
He waited in front of the silent house as the carriage pulled away. It disappeared into the darkness, and he wondered if he had taken leave of all of his senses. Rain pelted his greatcoat and the back of his neck. He hoped the Flower would return soon from whatever dark place she’d disappeared to.
“Monsieur. Come in.” The words barely carried over the rush and rhythm of rain. He could not see her at first, then, yes. There she was in front of the town house and wearing men’s clothing again, as he could see her legs moving up the steps, one after the other.
He strode to the entrance and started up himself, but the damn things were slippery. He nearly slid off the top step and gripped the railing to keep from tumbling down.
It was a sign from fate, he thought, as he scrambled to get his legs back under him. He should run, fast and far. Becoming involved with the Flower would be complicated and likely dangerous.
Looking behind, Maximilian checked for the carriage. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to turn back. But, no. That damnable duty again. He hadn’t shied from duty when he’d first been recruited for code breaking, and he wouldn’t do so now.
The door to the house was open, revealing nothing but midnight and silence. Mademoiselle La Fleur was a shadow against the dark interior. She made some unintelligible gesture he theorized was “come in” given the circumstances.
So he did. Stepped right into the lion’s den. Or the dancer’s lair.
It was more or less the same thing.
He passed by her and into the shadowed entryway. The town house smelled feminine and flowery and perfumed, and not the least bit like her. If he had given any thought to the matter, he would have expected it to smell fresh, as she did.
The door shut behind him. A quiet snick that spoke of restraint and—fear? Was that fear? Then he caught some strange scent in the perfumed interior.
Fresh blood.
He whirled to face her, prepared to fend off an attack. A knife ready to slit his throat or aimed for his gut so the death would be slow and painful. She only stood there, a shadow pressed against the door. Harsh breathing filled the quiet entry, the uneven rhythm loud now that the rain was shut outside.
“Excuse me. I must see to—” She broke off, shaking her head with erratic movements. “Wait a moment, please.”
She pushed off the door to stride down the hall, dancer’s legs moving with a quick, determined stride. He followed, deciding whatever blood had been shed in this house, it was not here in the front hall.
His eyes had adjusted to the dark, revealing the outline of the Flower, yawning doors to other rooms, and the shape of paintings on the wall and statuary on tables. All of it a jumble of shadows and forms.
She must have cat’s eyes, she walked so confidently in the dark. No wonder she was able to enter and exit his house without detection. He could not hear her, though she was only a few feet in front of him. It must be the dancing. She moved with grace and fluidity, feet stepping as lightly as clouds kissing the earth in the quiet early-morning hours.
He couldn’t quite accept the fact his brain had devised a phrase as ridiculous as clouds kissing the earth.
Maximilian set his fingers against his forehead and rubbed—and ran into her when she stopped. A light oof puffed from his lips as he registered her body against his. He could not feel her shape, but the contact still sent a jolt straight through him.
“I beg your pardon, mademoiselle,” he said stiffly.
She only shook her head and turned toward an empty wall. Her hand reached through the dark, touched something, and a door creaked open. Stepping back at the sudden glare, he was certain a host of spies would spill from the narrow space to swarm the hall.
The glare was only a small stubbed candle, illuminating a heavyset woman in a shift and wrapper and a young man in a long nightshirt. They huddled on a stone floor in a room barely big enough for both of them.
“Good.” Sagging shoulders accompanied the mademoiselle’s uneven sigh. “You are both safe. Are you well, Mrs. Asher?”
“It’s a small cut.” The heavyset woman stood. Blood matted her hair, and her hands trembled as they pulled together the edges of the wrapper. “Anne?”
“Gone.” The Flower’s tone was bleak. “She is gone.”
“Oh, my dear.” The older woman flew through door and straight at Mademoiselle La Fleur, drawing her in.
“I should have helped, Miss Vivienne.” The man clambered to his feet. He limped forward, clearly injured, though Maximilian saw no fresh blood. “You needed me. Anne needed—”
“No, Thomas.” Mademoiselle La Fleur spoke firmly, even as the older woman looked to be squeezing the breath from her. She patted the woman’s back, two perfunctory taps, before disentangling herself from determined arms and turning to the man. “You went into the closet as I asked. They would not have hesitated to kill you and Mrs. Asher.”
“What in the blazes is going on?” Maximilian stepped into the circle of light from the candle. He did not care for feeling ignorant, and whatever ghastly episode had played out here, it was time he knew.
The light from the candle stub shadowed the Flower’s eyes as she faced him, giving her a mysterious look. It suited the scene.
“Do not quibble now, Monsieur Westwood. We have a dead man who must be removed.” She spoke woodenly, as though she were discussing the rain outside. “The facts I will explain later.”
The blood. He’d smelled it, hadn’t he? Death and violence and fresh blood.
“Who is it? Marchand?”
She hissed out a breath. “Do not say the Vulture’s name. Not just now. I do not know what ears—” She whirled away, hair fanning out in wet coils to lure him in. “Thomas, bring the carriage. Mrs. Asher, find linens, towels. Something to wrap the man in. We’re going to dump him in the Thames.”
“Absolutely not.” Maximilian drew himself up. Murder he was not having any part of. Disposing of dead bodies he was also not having a part of. “There are authorities who must be contacted. An inquiry into the manner of death. You cannot—”
“He was a French spy.” She said it flatly, her eyes dark and hard in the weak candlelight. Resolve firmed her chin. He could not say why that tugged at his heart, but he wished it didn’t.
“Then the authorities must be called.” As stubborn as she, he would stand firm against her resolve. There was a proper order to things, a logical method for answering questions.
“His manner of death was a knife in between the ribs, angled up just so, in order to pierce the lungs and heart. A fast death.” She continued as if he had not spoken, lips thinned and turned down, brows rigid and without expression. “His murderer is myself, with my own knife.”
Dear God.
“If he is not removed and all traces of his death washed away by morning, it will be more than my life at stake. More, even, than the young girl abducted tonight. It will be the country.”
Maximilian drew a very deep, very resigned breath.
“Bloody, buggering hell.”