You Only Love Once (2 page)

London, 1820

A
ngelique Martand was not particularly proud to be a spy. It was a distasteful job, often dirty and dangerous, and at times it left such a mark on her soul that she feared the stain would never wash away. But it was also a necessary job, and someone must do it, for the good of the entire country. The fact that Angelique was exceptionally good at it merely made for a convenient—and enriching—coincidence.

Still, the envelope on her breakfast tray that fine late summer morning was not particularly welcome. She knew what it meant, that plain envelope addressed in a nondescript hand. Her employer, John Stafford, chief clerk of Bow Street Magistrates Court and Home Office spymaster, had a new assignment for her. That didn't bother her. What bothered her was the prospect of refusing it.

She considered ignoring it, pretending the post had gone astray and she had never received it. She explored this idea while she breakfasted, letting the envelope lie where the maid had left it on the tray.
She did answer these summonses of her own volition, after all, and no one could make her answer this one. The man who had sent it would never dare approach her more directly than this, and if she did not respond, he would have to find someone else. Someone who did not mind being lied to and sent off dangerously ignorant of the true import of her assignment. Someone who did not mind risking her life to conceal a petty bureaucrat's thieving ways, or the disgrace of a well-respected lord plotting to kill the King, or the embarrassment of a high-ranking army officer at the hands of a blackmailer. Someone, in short, who didn't mind being used by those in power to protect themselves.

Still…

Angelique pursed her lips and let her eyes wander about her bedchamber. It was a lovely room in a lovely house, if she did say so herself, simple but elegant, and it was all hers—thanks to Stafford. Whatever offenses he had done her, the man paid her very well. If only she hadn't caught him lying to her. If only she hadn't been unpleasantly surprised and unsettled by it. Cursing silently, she opened the envelope and read the single line inside:
Half past eleven, this morning.

She flung off the coverlet and got out of bed. “Lisette,” she called. “The green striped walking dress today.”

Her maid bustled into the room a moment later, the green dress over her arm. “
Oui
, Madame. Shall I send for a carriage?”

Angelique walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The fresh morning breeze blew her nightdress flat against her belly, and she raised
her arms over her head, savoring the feel of the fine lawn against her skin. She hadn't worked for over two months, and had become used to lazy days spent on pursuits of her own whim. That must be part of the reason she was so reluctant to go into the city and see Stafford. “I suppose,” she said, answering Lisette's query.

“You are not anxious to see him?” Lisette clucked under her breath and answered her own question. “Of course not. Who would be pleased to wait on the devil?”

Angelique smiled. “Pleased? No. Satisfied?” She paused. “Perhaps.”

The maid raised her brows but said nothing. Lisette was more than a mere maid; unlike the other servants, she knew precisely what her mistress was. She even accompanied Angelique on many assignments, helping with disguises, cooking when necessary, binding wounds, and even spying a bit herself among other servants. She was invaluable, both as a lady's maid and as a spy's servant.

Angelique washed, then sat before the dressing table. Lisette picked up the brush and began pulling it through her hair. Angelique gazed into the mirror and watched the maid arrange her long dark hair into a fashionable twist. She smiled wryly at the dark humor of dressing like a lady when she was anything but; why, Stafford might be planning to send her out posing as a whore this time. Then she stopped smiling, and leaned closer to the mirror, ignoring Lisette's exclamation as a thick lock of hair fell out of place. Gently she touched the skin at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. The faint lines there didn't go away, and
when she frowned, they grew deeper and more pronounced.

“Madame?” asked Lisette curiously.

She sat back. “Wrinkles,” she announced. “I am growing old.”

“It is better than not growing old.” Lisette shrugged, twisting the loose hair back into the heavy mass at the crown of her head. “I speak from experience.”

Angelique smiled reluctantly. Lisette was probably old enough to be her mother, and looked it. What she said was true enough, particularly to someone in Angelique's profession. Besides, she
was
getting old. In less than two years' time, she would be thirty. “That does not mean I must enjoy it.” Lisette laughed. “He is making me old before my time,” she added on a sigh.

“There's no doubt of that, Madame,” the maid replied. “'Tis a hard life. You would be well quit of it, and
him
.” Lisette never called Stafford by name, just
him
, as if his very name left a bad taste in her mouth.

“Indeed.” Hair coifed, Angelique rose from the table. As she dressed, each layer of clothing tugged and smoothed into place by Lisette's capable hands, she studied herself in the mirror with critical eyes. There was a scar on the inside of her arm from one of her first spying missions, small but noticeable. The burn scar on her shin was more prominent, but it lay hidden under stockings and skirts. The little finger of her left hand had been broken once and healed just shy of straight, also in Stafford's service. Her figure was still slim and her muscles still strong—stronger than the average woman's—but Angelique
began to feel old and tired. Or rather she sensed it coming, and was suddenly more keenly aware of the passing of time.

She thought about it as the hired carriage drove her into London, to the heart of the city where John Stafford kept his office. She felt no tension, no anxiety, no exhilaration about whatever he might present to her. That was new; once, a summons from him would have made her heart pound and her blood surge. It was terrifying and thrilling to be sent off on a dangerous assignment, although the terror had waned as she grew more skilled and practiced. But now the exhilaration was gone as well. Perhaps more than anything, that meant it was time to consider retirement. A bored or distracted spy was not long for this world, and she preferred to die on her own terms, hopefully in her own bed at a date in the distant future.

The carriage halted near the busy market in Covent Garden. She stepped down and tipped her driver generously, then walked the short distance to Bow Street. Before she reached the Magistrates Court, she turned down an alley, walking around to the back to a plain door that looked like the entrance to the coal bin. But she pulled a key from her reticule and put it in the lock, and the door opened on remarkably well-oiled hinges.

She locked the door behind her and went down the hall, her footsteps echoing off the blank walls. Stafford's office was not back here, in this narrow passage with unmarked doors every few feet. Stafford's deputy, Mr. Phipps, popped out of one of them as she walked past, on her way to the larger, brighter office upstairs.

“He's been expecting you,” Phipps said, trotting at her heels.

“Has he?” she said without looking at him. She didn't care for Phipps, who never risked his own neck but fancied himself better than all the agents put together, and most especially better than she. Once he had scolded her for being seen breaking into the home of a suspected French spy, causing an uproar among the neighbors that alerted the man to their interest. Phipps had sneeringly suggested her sex was the reason she had been so careless. Angelique had simply smiled and offered to break into
his
home without being seen, promising that he would know she had been there by the knife she would leave in his throat. Ever since, Phipps had been like a dog growling at her from the shadows, always waiting for her to make another mistake. He hated her for not having done so, and she hated him for watching for it.

“All morning,” he informed her maliciously. “Now he's tied up with a foreign visitor.”

“And yet I am here when he requested.” She climbed the stairs, and Phipps puffed his way up behind her.

“I'll let him know you're waiting.”

Angelique stopped in front of Stafford's private office. She made no reply, just gave Phipps a pointed look. Although she wasn't tall, her eyes were on a level with his as he stooped slightly to hold the stitch in his side. His pale gaze held hers a moment, then flickered down over her figure in the stylish walking dress, the palpable contempt in his expression underpinned with unwilling lust. What a pathetic little man he was, sure she was Stafford's favorite
agent only because she must be lifting her skirt for him. Angelique thought of the impossible tasks she had completed for Stafford, many without Phipps's knowledge, and wanted to laugh. For a man who thought she was incompetent, Phipps was remarkably chary of her.

She waited until he looked her in the face again. “If he wished to see me earlier or later, he should have said so in his note,” she said with acid politeness. “As it is, he will be glad to see me at all, since I do not sit downstairs and await his pleasure.”
As you do.

Phipps's mouth flattened sullenly. He knew she was right, and he hated her for that as well. Without another word he jerked his head and turned on his heel to walk away. She sniffed at his departing back, then rapped twice on the door. A voice inside called out at once to enter, and she let herself into the room.

It was a large office, but furnished as plainly as a clerk's might be. Bookcases lined two walls, and hard wooden chairs a third. Sunlight streamed through the two high windows onto the scuffed floor and cluttered desk, glittering on a small stack of coins and a thin stiletto dagger. There was something very English about Stafford's utter disregard for any concealment of his activities. At her entrance, he rose from his desk and bowed his head. She nodded back and waited. There was another man, also rising from his chair, but she only paid him enough attention to note his presence.

“Good morning,” Stafford said with a thin smile. “Thank you for coming.” He held out one hand. “May I introduce Mr. Nathaniel Avery. Mr. Avery, this is Madame Martand.”

“Good day.” She curtsied as the other man bowed. Again she barely glanced at him; he was hardly worthy of note, moderately tall and lanky with untidy brown hair, unexceptional features, and plain, serviceable clothing. She half expected him to excuse himself, or for Stafford to murmur a pardon and escort him out, but neither happened. He must be related to whatever Stafford wanted to present to her, then. Stafford held out one hand toward a chair, and she seated herself.

“I have an assignment for you,” her employer said, “of some international delicacy. Mr. Avery”—he inclined his head politely at the other man—“is in England to find a man who has defrauded his government. You are to help him find this man, so that he may recover any funds remaining.”

She pursed her lips and said nothing. Stafford gave her a gleaming glance across the desk before turning to Avery. “Madame Martand is most capable.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” murmured Avery. American, she guessed from his accent, and not pleased to be presented with a woman. She had certainly heard that dry, doubtful tone enough times to recognize it now. She didn't move or change her expression, but instinctively her regard for Mr. Avery dropped the few levels it had achieved to begin with.

Stafford must have heard it, too, for he smiled in his chilly way. She knew he was savoring the joke. No one ever expected her to be any good at what she did. “Perhaps you would relate your information about Mr. Dixon's actions for her benefit.”

Avery shifted on his chair. “Er…yes.” He cleared his throat. “Jacob Dixon served for several years as
the deputy to the Collector of the Port of New York, responsible for collecting tariffs on goods arriving from abroad. Mr. Dixon had charge of all the bookkeeping of the port, and therefore of all the funds. Just a few months ago he abruptly gave notice and returned to his native England. Shortly after his departure, a sizable amount of money was discovered missing from the port accounts. An examination of the books left little doubt that Dixon is responsible for its disappearance. I am here on behalf of my government to recover as much money as remains, and to take Mr. Dixon back to New York for trial.”

Angelique raised one eyebrow at Stafford. He met her gaze with a placid look, his eyes opaque and calm, just a clerk going about his business. She knew better. Chasing down a common embezzler? He wouldn't send her out for something so tedious and ordinary. There must be something more to this, and it raised the hair on the back of her neck that he wasn't saying anything. She glanced back at the American fellow from the corner of her eye. His expression was unhappy, his posture stiff.

“You are certain this man is in England?”

He started, as if he had not expected her to question him, and turned to her. He had shockingly green eyes, but answered with a hint of indignity. “We most certainly are.”

“Then why do you not simply apprehend him?” She widened her eyes innocently. “Send a pair of constables around to his lodging and arrest him, then retrieve your money.”

“It's not that simple, Madame,” said Avery in the condescending tone she hated. “We are not just after a chest of coins.”

“Perhaps it is not that simple, but that is what you are to do, in essence,” Stafford broke in. “Locate Mr. Dixon without betraying your true intent. He may well flee the country with his ill-gotten gains, or leave them so well hidden the funds may never be recovered. We hope to take him unawares. Seduce the information from him, if you will, before he suspects he has caught our attention.”