You Only Love Once (3 page)

Angelique made a noncommittal noise in the back of her throat. This sounded tedious—suspiciously so. The word “no” was poised on her tongue, ready to fall as soon as politely possible. The moment the American left, if not sooner.

“If Mr. Avery's information is correct, Mr. Dixon may be looking to establish himself in English society using his stolen fortune. You and Mr. Avery will work together to find him. He alone knows what Mr. Dixon looks like, and he alone will know the particulars of the misappropriated funds.” He nodded politely at the American, although Angelique didn't miss the wry twist of his mouth as he did so. That was interesting; Stafford must have wanted to know more, and been rebuffed. Perhaps this Avery fellow wasn't quite as simple as he appeared.

It wouldn't make her work with him, though.

She clasped her hands in her lap and assumed an expression of pained regret. “I do not think my talents are suited to this task. I am sure—”

“We must act quickly before Mr. Dixon has a chance to disappear into the country,” went on Stafford over her words, as if she hadn't spoken. “His family comes originally from Essex, although Mr. Avery believes there are no members remaining there. The sooner he is found, the better.” The
spymaster's eyes flashed at her. Angelique sat like a stone, her face a smooth mask. He had heard her begin to protest; he knew she would refuse. For some reason he was carrying on as if it were otherwise, which portended nothing good. She sat in tense silence and waited.

“You shall be man and wife. Mr. Avery, a wealthy American looking for investors. You, his discontented wife.” Stafford's gaze darted between the two of them. “Between the two of you, one should be able to discover Dixon's location and loosen his tongue.”

Angelique loosened her own tongue. “No.”

Unperturbed, Stafford rose. “Mr. Avery, would you be so kind as to excuse us? I will contact you in the morning about how we shall proceed.”

“Of course,” the man muttered, jumping to his feet. “My thanks for your time, sir. Madame.” He bowed slightly in her direction and left. The door opened, then closed behind him with a soft click. Angelique didn't even look after him; she didn't care what he thought, the arrogant idiot.

“How dare you,” she began coldly. “He is an amateur—and you wish me to go as his wife? No.”

Her employer held up one hand as he resumed his seat. “Do you think I just dreamed up this plan? It has been carefully crafted, I assure you. Contain your temper a moment and listen.” Angelique raised her eyebrows, unaccustomed to being spoken to in such a manner. Stafford leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This man Dixon is a grave menace. We want him found, and you are the person to do it.”

“All this, over money?” she snapped. “Have Ian
snatch him off the street, and tell him not to be gentle. Two hours with Ian and he will desecrate his mother's grave to return the money.”

“No, it is not about the money,” Stafford said. He leaned back and clasped his hands on his desk. “Avery can find it, or not. I agreed to try to get his government's funds, but if it comes to naught…” He shrugged. “I don't care if he never sees a penny of it again.”

“So you would send me off like some errand boy, when you do not even care if the funds are returned.” She shook her head and started to rise from her chair. “Find someone else. I have no interest.”

“Wait,” he said sharply. “I need
you
to find Dixon.”

“Why?” She tilted her chin in scorn. “There is nothing in this task that someone else could not do. You knew I would not like being sent out with
him
, let alone as his wife. If I must work with someone, I prefer it to be someone who knows what he is doing. I will spend the whole time looking after this American adventurer!”

“Dixon is reputedly a man of expensive tastes. He likes beautiful women. I am quite sure you will be able to use that to your advantage.” His tone of voice intimated exactly how she could do it.

“How does that make him different from any other man?” She shrugged. “You have other spies willing to whore for you.”

“Not like you.”

“Send Ian along with one of them. He is all too willing to play a husband, and he will not look down his nose at a woman doing her job.”

“But Avery must be there, and the simplest pose is
as your husband. He alone knows what Dixon looks like, what his habits and tastes are, the details of his recent life and crimes. Without his involvement we would be searching in the dark. If he is there as your husband, he will be able to remain close to you, and offer plenty of opportunity for you to confer. Not,” he added dryly, “that I don't appreciate Mr. Wallace's talents as well.”

He wouldn't send Ian. Angelique gave it up and changed her attack. “Who is Avery?”

“He is an envoy of President Monroe, properly credentialed. I believe he has connections to a prominent Boston family.”

“In other words, he has a patronage post and thinks to play at being a spy.” She shook her head. “Who is Dixon, that you jump to find him on the word of such a man? And for such a motive—I see nothing in this for the Crown, nothing.” Stafford just looked at her. She knew that smooth opaque expression, though, and was having none of it. “You have lied to me before,” she reminded him. “And I will not tolerate it again.”

He drummed his fingers on the desk, then surged to his feet and paced to the window. “I take issue with your use of the word ‘lie,'” he said over his shoulder. “But no matter. I never swore to reveal all; you agreed to that. I need someone who will follow my orders, not question every facet of them, and you knew that years ago.”

“It almost cost two men their lives,” she retorted. “I never agreed to that. How am I to know I am not the next agent to be sacrificed?”

He stood a moment more at the window, hands tightly clasped behind him. “All right,” he growled,
turning abruptly. “This is what I can tell you: You are to find Dixon as soon as humanly possible. Do what you must to keep Avery in line, but once he has his money, dispatch him on his way at once.”

“And then?” she prodded when he hesitated.

“And then…” Stafford paused again. “You must kill Jacob Dixon.”

A
ngelique was so surprised she spoke without thinking. “Why?”

Her employer's eyebrows went up, way up. She was not paid to ask why, and normally she didn't. She had always been convinced of the necessity of drastic acts by the nature of the people on whom he asked her spy. Men plotting to assassinate the King were one thing, though; a common embezzler was another. And this time Stafford was coercing her into a mission she didn't like, in a role she flatly refused to play, with an ignorant, bumbling American to watch over. She lifted her chin under Stafford's regard and waited for his reply.

For a moment he looked annoyed, and then his expression smoothed into its usual imperturbable lines. “The Crown does not wish him to linger. The Crown wishes for him to simply…disappear.”

Angelique frowned. This mission grew less and less appealing by the minute. “I do not like it. It always makes things difficult.”

“You have done it before.”

“Not with pleasure,” she snapped. “Such a mess. And what am I to do with Avery if he should pro
test? He declared his intention to take this man back to America with him.”

“You will manage.”

She scoffed. “If I agree.”

“Are you threatening not to agree?”

She met his level stare with her own for a long moment. “More than threatening,” she said at last. “You have given me very little reason to agree, particularly with this added”—she flicked her fingers in distaste—“complication.”

“I did not think I needed to. Beyond the usual inducement, that is.”

Angelique made a face. He meant her payment. She was always paid treble if he required her to kill anyone. She didn't quibble at cutting a throat now and then, not when the throats belonged to men with every sort of sin on their souls already and more contemplated, but taking a life was not something to be done lightly. If she didn't demand a premium, Stafford would have her hands permanently covered in blood. And now an embezzler? When even his victim didn't wish him dead? “I am not so desperate for money as that.”

He frowned. It was just a pair of lines between his brows, but she was not used to seeing anything like it on his face. Stafford was ever sure of himself. Perhaps it was because he was suddenly not sure of her, after all these years working together. How many had it been now—nine? Ten? It brought back her morning disquiet about her own advancing age, and made her just want to leave. She put up one hand when he started to speak. “I will think about it,” she said. “But I do not like it.”

“I tried to persuade Mr. Avery that his participa
tion was not needed.” It was a peace offering, or as close as John Stafford ever came to one. She dipped her head in acknowledgment.

“You will have my answer in two days. I trust that will not be a problem.”

He, in turn, accepted her delay without argument. “Not at all.”

Angelique thought through the strange conversation as she walked out of the building. Stafford wanted her, specifically, to go with the American, when it would be so much easier to have Ian handle it. He didn't want anyone to know what happened to Dixon; he wanted Dixon to simply disappear. Embezzling—from the Americans, no less, not even from the English—wasn't worth killing a man over, let alone so secretively. Stafford must want him dead for other reasons, reasons that must have either just come to his attention, or existed for some time but been negated by the simple fact that Stafford obviously didn't know where or how to find Dixon. Avery said the man had been in America for several years.

Her dark mood soured more at the thought of Avery. A prominent Boston family, a personal letter from the president of his country. This did not sound like a man capable of the deceit, discretion, and daring necessary. And he did not look pleased to hear Stafford wanted her to go with him, which meant she might as well consider him in the same category as Dixon, unpredictable and untrustworthy. Angelique wished it were Ian instead. Ian respected her abilities and did what she told him to do. They got on well together and trusted each other—as well as any two people in their profession
could trust each other. Avery, on the other hand…

She shook her head in irritation as she emerged into the bustle of Bow Street. With any luck, Mr. Avery would decide he couldn't bear to work with a woman and quit before they even began. With even greater luck, Stafford would call off the entire episode when he did so.

 

Nate Avery almost missed the Frenchwoman when she finally emerged from the Bow Street offices. She came not out the front door but from an alley some distance away. She walked briskly, without looking around her, her head held high. Nate tossed aside the newspaper he'd been reading as he waited, and followed her.

Had he not known to look for her, she wouldn't have particularly caught his eye. Once he had seen her move, though, he couldn't recall why not. Her posture radiated poise and command. “Command” might not be the usual thing to attribute to a woman, but this one had it. Nate recalled how she had dealt with Stafford and what the man had said about her:
She is exceedingly capable
. Just looking at the back of her bonnet and the set of her shoulders made him think it might be true. Still, she wasn't at all what he had expected, and that bothered him.

Already things were not going as anticipated. Nate had approached Stafford because he needed to; that part had all gone according to plan. There was little to no chance the English would be pleased if he tracked down one of their own and spirited the man back to New York without so much as a courtesy visit. He had expected to be sent along with an Englishman at his side, some pinched-faced fellow
meant to watch over him as much as help him. He had not expected the Englishman to be a Frenchwoman, let alone a young, petite one who looked barely old enough to be without her governess but walked with the confidence of a warrior. She was a beauty, to be sure, and that alone would probably be enough to seduce Jacob Dixon, as Stafford had suggested. But Dixon was as slippery as an otter, and had talked and charmed his way past dozens of people who ought to have known better. There was little chance he'd reveal the details of his crimes in exchange for a tumble with any woman, not even that one. Nate was torn between amazement that Stafford wanted to send her, and frustration that he would have to puzzle her out at the same time he tried to pin down Dixon.

At the corner she stepped off the pavement and raised one hand at a passing hackney. By lengthening his step, Nate was able to catch the edge of the door just as she reached out to shut it behind her. Without waiting for an invitation, he swung himself into the carriage, pulling the door closed behind him.

“This carriage is taken,” she said. Her voice was calm, but he caught the spark of irritation in her dark eyes.

“I know.” He settled into the seat opposite her, not making any effort to hide his scrutiny.

She gave a faint shrug and shook her head. “Then go ahead. Ask your questions.”

“You aren't surprised that I want some answers?”

“I never promised answers,” she said. “But ask and be done with it. It is not a long ride.”

“Oh? How far are we going?” He leaned back and
stretched out his legs, as much as he could in the narrow hackney. His boot collided with her foot, beneath the edge of her skirt. Her expression didn't change, but she lifted that foot, placed it on top of his boot, and pushed down until he thought she was trying to break his ankle. He braced his toes and flexed his foot, resisting. His boots weren't the thin leather ones Englishmen were wearing now, but tougher, waterproof ones meant for a seafaring man. He just sat and waited, smiling until she let up.

“I am not going far,” she said. “I don't know where you are going.”

“Apparently I'm not going anywhere without you, if your Mr. Stafford has his way.”

“He may not,” she replied gently, as if breaking bad news. “You may still hope.”

Nate raised his eyebrows. “He didn't seem the type to take disappointment well.”

“But he will, if he has no choice.” She glanced out the window.

Nate hadn't heard the direction she gave the driver, but he didn't know distances in London anyway. He might have only another minute or so to take her measure. “He might accept it, but I won't. I intend to find Jacob Dixon and return him to New York to stand trial, no matter what you or Stafford have to say about it.”

“I never suggested you do otherwise,” she said, the faintest bit of scorn shading her tone. Unflappable, but annoyed.

He grinned. It was obvious from her expression she'd like to tell him what to do, and not just in regard to Dixon. “I only want us to understand each other. Should you decide to agree, that is.”

Her eyes gleamed at him. “Yes, I can see you are concerned.”

He was running out of time. She was fending him off with this cool condescension, delaying until the hackney reached her destination and she could escape. As foreign as it was to think of a woman as a cold-blooded spy, he could see it in her; it wasn't enough to assure him of her competence, but he was willing to reserve judgment. He wanted to know what she was made of, and he couldn't while she remained settled in this distant, controlled manner. He leaned forward, not making any effort to hide his interest.

“You're not at all what I expected,” he said, and it was true. Her eyes were as dark as a moonless night, her skin as fair as fresh honeysuckle blossoms. She looked like a New Orleans belle, with a hint of foreign blood. Up close she wasn't quite as young as he had first thought, but she still didn't look anything like the bloodless clerk he had expected to be given.

Her only reply was a faint, indulgent smile, as if she were listening to a child—and not all that attentively. “I thought he'd send someone more imposing,” he went on, trying to provoke her. “Someone older, perhaps, or more…seasoned. You may think Dixon is just some common thief, but he's much worse, clever and charming and utterly without morals. Stafford assures me you're competent, but I confess, I would have preferred someone else.” Someone more predictable.

She gave a small sigh, that infuriating smile still fixed on her lips. Her eyes wandered to the window as if his every word bored her to tears. “I just hope I don't have to spend the entire time saving your
pretty little neck,” he muttered, more as a jibe at her silence than a real concern. He didn't intend to spend his time looking out for her, not when he had more pressing matters. If she couldn't take care of herself, so much the worse for her.

Finally he seemed to have pierced her demeanor. She leaned forward, looking directly at him. She crooked her finger at him, and he, too, leaned forward. Up close she was almost exotically beautiful, he thought, with slightly slanted eyes and a pert, full mouth that was now pursed up almost in a kiss. He edged a little closer, unconsciously breathing deeply to catch the scent of her skin.

“I don't care what you expected or what you would prefer,” she whispered in her French-flavored voice. “I will do my part, and you can do yours. Or not; I do not care a great deal what you do. But if you chatter so indiscreetly in public again, I'll cut your throat myself.” With a pleasant smile, she sat back and turned her face to the window once more.

In spite of himself, he found a slow smile forming on his lips. He liked her much better already. “Ah,” he said. “Then we understand each other better than I thought.”

“As if that is a concern.” The carriage had stopped. She gathered her skirt in one hand and reached for the door. Feeling more cordial now, Nate opened it himself and jumped down, offering her his hand. She took it and let him help her down. He caught a glimpse of slender ankles and calves as she swished her skirts back into place. Very nice, he thought; a spy with lovely legs and plump, pretty breasts. If he was to be saddled with her, at least there would be some compensation.

She turned and walked up the steps of the neat little house without a backward glance at him. “
Au revoir
, Madame,” he called after her, grinning at the way she completely ignored him. She let herself in and closed the door without looking back, but he knew she'd heard him just the same. He could tell by the set of her shoulders that she was refusing to turn back and glare at him. Instinctively Nate glanced at the window nearest the door, wondering if she would peep out at him once she was safely inside. He couldn't tell—was that a shadow just beyond the curtain swaying so gently in the breeze? He touched the brim of his hat and smiled, just in case.

“Two shillings, guv,” said the cabdriver then, interrupting his thoughts. Nate started, then laughed at himself. What a clever girl, sticking him with the fare. But what was the cost of the hackney, when it had shown him where she lived?

“Limehouse docks,” he told the man, then stepped back into the carriage, taking one last assessing look at the neat little house.

Somehow he found himself looking forward to his next meeting with the mysterious Madame Martand.

 

“Has he gone?” Angelique kept her eyes on the back of the hall as she unbuttoned her pelisse. Lisette's eyebrows shot up, but she moved quickly to the window, staying just behind the fluttering curtain.

“
Oui
, Madame. He got into the hackney and it is leaving.”

She let out her breath in a sigh of aggravation and yanked loose the ribbon of her bonnet. What a boor
ish man! So brash, so impolitic, so reckless! Had he even listened to a word Stafford said? Anyone might have seen him follow her—right to her own doorstep! She wrenched off the pelisse and handed it to Lisette with the bonnet, muttering slurs on the American's head as she strode into her small library.

She hadn't been eager to take on this commission before; now she was so annoyed she was tempted to refuse immediately, and announce her retirement as well. How dare Stafford try to impose that imbecile upon her? The American had seemed stiff and condescending, which was bad enough. Then he followed her in broad day, forcing his company upon her and questioning her competence. For a moment she wondered how upset Stafford would be if she were forced to cut Mr. Avery's throat as well as Dixon's, because she wasn't sure she could stand much more of his company.