You Only Love Once (4 page)

Of course she could not do that. The American came from his president, and it would cause trouble for Lord Sidmouth if she harmed Avery. Lord Sidmouth, the Home Secretary, was Stafford's master. Angelique knew very well that Stafford ran his little band of agents at Sidmouth's pleasure, and for his service. Making trouble for his lordship would cause immense trouble for Stafford, and therefore for her. She couldn't kill Mr. Avery, no matter how tempting it might be or how she might threaten him. Unless, of course, Stafford gave her leave to do so.

At least, she conceded, he looked the part of a brash American trying to bully his way into English society. From his drab, untailored clothing to his tousled hair and bold gaze, no one would ever mistake him for a proper gentleman. And his voice! It
was a nice enough voice, rich and mellow with a hint of rasp, but it rang with the flat drawl of America—Boston, or perhaps New York. Angelique had an ear for languages and had quite a mental catalog of accents. But even if he could play his superficial part well enough, she had grave fears he could handle the clandestine parts of it. How did he intend to persuade Jacob Dixon to hand over the stolen funds? Angelique wasn't about to bed the man just so Mr. Avery could get his money, no matter what Stafford suggested.

She shook her head in disgust. On one hand, Stafford was set on her carrying out his mission, and his plan was much the same as the other assignments he had given her over the years. On the other hand, she didn't feel like taking the job. It sounded tedious and distasteful, potentially messy—disposing of bodies always was—and aggravating to boot, thanks to Mr. Avery. For a moment she stood tapping her fingers on the desk, staring blindly out the window at her small garden. Like the rest of the house, it was small but lovely, and all hers. A peaceful retreat from the violent realities she faced when working. More than ever she felt the pull of retirement, the longing to enjoy what she had earned while she still could. What to do? She even asked the question out loud, trying to squeeze a rational decision from the unhappy choices before her.

No answer came to her, of course. She had no one to talk things over with. The agents she had befriended best, the more decent men, were dropping off Stafford's service left and right, done in by love and resurgent senses of honor. Most of Stafford's people were rabble, common spies motivated by
money and, sometimes, personal vendettas. She knew those agents had cost him some prosecutions, but he still used them. Perhaps that was why he wanted her in particular to do this. Perhaps his other agents would be too tempted to keep Dixon's money after they killed him, whereas Stafford knew she could be counted on to do it properly.

Again she wondered why he didn't want Ian involved. Ian Wallace was a big Scot, always ready for trouble and eager to meet it. He had some honor and decency as well, and wouldn't forget who employed him. But he would stand out, she acknowledged; if Stafford was bent on doing this subtly, Ian would be the wrong choice. Still, he was one of the few agents left in Stafford's employ she actually trusted, and it would have made her infinitely more comfortable to have him at hand. At least she knew what to expect from Ian.

She walked back into the hall. “Lisette,” she called, retrieving her pelisse from the hook behind the door. “I am going back out.”

“
Oui
, Madame.” Her maid appeared almost instantly, supremely helpful. “Will you take luncheon when you return?”

“Yes. In the garden.” She tied the bonnet ribbons under her chin and went out, setting off on foot this time toward the reaches of Westminster.

His lodging was on the top floor of a tall, narrow building, not far from the bustle of Whitehall. The first floor was a boot maker, the second the boot maker's lodging, and above them all lived Ian. She walked up the back stairs and rapped at the door. She had come here before, though rarely, and knew Ian had told people she was his sister—an amus
ing conceit, given how he flirted with her so outrageously whenever they worked together. Indeed, when he pulled open the door, he was nearly naked, wearing only knee breeches and dripping wet.

“A fine sight for a man's eyes!” he said, his blue eyes lighting up. “And here I'm lathered up already.”

She laughed, stepping past him as he held the door. “That had more to do with the river than with me. You reek of dead fish.”

He shrugged, closing the door firmly behind her. “Cold and uncaring, you are. Can you not see I'm developing a cough?” He cleared his throat twice, then forced a weak cough.

Angelique ignored him, removing her bonnet and gloves as she moved toward the tiny sitting room. A garish yellow sofa sat right behind the door, and she laid down her bonnet before seating herself. The only other furniture in the room was a musty old leather armchair with worn spots on every horizontal surface, and an octagonal table, minus one leg. Ian must have furnished the entire flat from the castoffs of some merchant household. “Why were you in the river?”

He followed her into the sitting room, now with a length of toweling in his hands. Unabashedly he draped the linen over his head, vigorously drying his hair. “I dropped something.” She arched a brow. He grinned. “Someone. 'Tis over. I can't even remember what it was about, now that there's a beautiful woman in my lodging.”

She laughed. “I have come for sage advice.”

“Sage advice? You break my heart. I thought it would be more interesting, given your lovely frock.”

Angelique didn't smile back, and Ian's grin van
ished. He tossed the towel aside, finally serious. “What is it, then?”

“I saw Stafford this morning. He sent for me about a new assignment.” There was nothing odd about that. She chose her next words carefully, though. “There is something curious about what he asks.” Again she hesitated, but Ian just raised his eyebrow and waited. “An American was in his office. He seeks a man who stole from the American government. Stafford agreed to help him find the thief so he can get the money back.”

“Is that all?” Ian flipped one hand dismissively. “Can't take more than a week, if the fellow's in London.”

“Perhaps,” she said sourly, “if the American can be persuaded to listen to me.”

“Ah.” Already Ian was smirking at her predicament. “Not the type, eh?”

“It does not appear so. I asked Stafford to send someone else, and he refused.”

This time Ian laughed out loud. “Of course he did! You're his particular favorite, love; he doesn't trust the rest of us half as much as he trusts you.”

“Be serious, Ian,” she snapped. “I do not like this job.”

“Well, who would? He doesn't send us out to smell the roses, though.” Ian cocked his head and squinted at her. “What's so upsetting about this one? Is the American chap that bad?”

Angelique smoothed her skirt. Stafford's private charge to her was not to be mentioned to anyone, not even to Ian. Ian knew that she did things like this from time to time, but he never asked specifically and she never told him. Not because Ian would
hold it against her; he himself had had a hand in some “disappearances” at Stafford's request. But Stafford turned to her when he didn't want anyone to suspect his involvement; he turned to Ian when he didn't care who knew. “He is a rash fellow,” she said in response to Ian's question about Mr. Avery. “I do not think he trusts me any more than I trust him. He will not subject his will to mine, even if he knows nothing.”

He thought about that, then shrugged, his face relaxing. “Well,” he said. “It's not much different from usual, is it? Stafford orders, we do. Some matter of British security or similar excuse from the lawyers up in Whitehall.”

She hadn't expected him to say that. It was true, but Ian appeared not to care that it bothered her this time. Angelique, who had a healthy respect for her own intuitions, was annoyed by his indifference to them. “It
is
different. He wants me to go alone with this American.”

“He sent Brandon off alone last time,” Ian pointed out at once. “Then sent us after him to tidy things up. I'll be expecting the old fox's note in a fortnight, sending me after you, eh?” He grinned.

“He sent Alec
home
,” she retorted. “Alec could hardly go back to his family with a string of people in tow, even if his family hadn't thought him dead for five years.”

Ian swiped a trail of water from the side of his face and pushed back his still-wet red hair. “So you don't like the American. You hardly need to rely on him.”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “He is an amateur.”

“Everyone must seem so, love, after you've worked with me.” He gave her an outrageous wink.

Angelique hesitated. Here was the last line she had never crossed with Ian. They had worked together for a few years, and she liked him a great deal. He was a smart agent, tough and efficient, and there was no one she'd rather have at her back in a tight spot. He was also a flirt of the highest order, constantly making innuendo and suggestive comments. Angelique knew she was hardly the only one he flirted with, and that while he hadn't actually attempted to seduce her, he hadn't hesitated with a whole host of other women. If she'd had to choose a man to propose to, Ian was hardly the perfect candidate.

But he alone knew her for what she was—a spy, an imposter, a thief, a hired assassin. With him alone she could be herself and not be forced to lie and pretend to a decent, honorable past she didn't possess. Ian's soul might be as dark and blemished as hers, but it made them equals. She would never live in fear of him discovering what she had done because he already knew. And if she didn't want to spend the rest of her life alone, Ian might be her only choice.

But it wasn't an easy question to ask. She gathered her composure, not wanting to seem too eager. “I was thinking of retiring,” she said a low voice. “I have been at this too long.”

“Retire? You?” He seemed amused. “What would you do with yourself—decapitate the daisies while your harpy of a maid gets fat and lazy?”

“Perhaps.” She tilted her head back and watched
him through her eyelashes. “Or perhaps I shall find myself a husband and spend my days making love to him.”

“Don't forget the nights,” he said with his usual rakish leer.

She smiled. “Never. He shall make love to me at nights. We must be equals, you see.”

Ian cast his eyes upward, clapping one hand to his heart. “You're a terrible tease, Angelique. Breaking my heart, you are, talking about this lucky fellow. A pox on him, whoever he is.”

Angelique smiled, disgusted to realize her pulse was beating hard. “Perhaps he will be someone you know. Perhaps it will be you.”

For the merest moment he froze. If she hadn't known him so well, she would have missed it. Instead she saw it, and the message it sent. He was shocked, horrified, and looking for a way out. Then he threw back his head and burst out laughing. “Oh, bloody hell. What a corker! I deserve that; should have known you were just trying to have a little fun with me.” He finally grabbed a shirt from the back of his chair and pulled it over his head. “You're twisting my tail about Staff, too. He's a crafty old fox to be sure, but this doesn't sound unlike his usual sneaking and lying.”

“You think I should take the job.” Her heart still thudded hard, but slower now; betrayed.

Ian shrugged, his attention on buttoning the cuffs of his sleeves. “Why not? You know you'd find it more satisfying than marriage.”

Why not. She let out her breath carefully, not wanting him to hear it. Ian saw nothing wrong with Stafford's request, nothing in her instinctive reluc
tance, and nothing in her hints that they might suit each other—at least, nothing that interested him. Unexpected humiliation fizzed in her veins for a moment, and she held herself very tightly together to hide it. “Yes,” she said, when she could speak coolly again. “Why not?”

“Of course, if you don't want to do it, tell him to go bugger himself,” Ian added quickly. He might have even sounded relieved. “Although if you do, let me come along. I'd pay ten quid to see his face then.”

“No, no.” She tugged at her glove, ignoring his jokes. “As you say, there is no reason not to accept.”

He jumped up to follow her from the room. “I'll watch for that note, sending me after you to make sure all is well.” He reached around her to open the door.

She raised her eyes to his, once more calm and self-possessed. “I am sure that will not be necessary. I can handle one American, no matter how amateur or bellicose.”

He grinned and winked at her. “Aye, but if you need a hand with the embezzler—”

Angelique gave him a brief, dismissive smile. “You know I won't. Thank you, Ian. You have been most helpful.” She left, feeling his eyes on her back until she rounded the newel post and went down the stairs.

On the street once more, she walked briskly, scourging herself with the sting of his disinterest. Ian Wallace wasn't the only man in the world, and she was far from a dried-up crone. But how dare he flirt with her so outrageously and so often, if he had no interest in actually having her? Surely he couldn't have been alarmed by that word “hus
band” surely Ian had bigger ballocks than that. She certainly hadn't expected him to fall upon her with a declaration of love and desire, but a spark of interest or acknowledgment would have been agreeable. He couldn't even give weight to her suspicion that Stafford wasn't playing fairly with her, but laughed it off and then offered to step in and
help
. As if she needed help, let alone
his
help.

She realized she was quivering with fury and forcibly reined in her emotions. Very well. Ian had persuaded her, for good or for ill: she would take Stafford's vile little job, but this was the last one. A fortnight's work, no more, and then she would walk away from all this ugliness. And woe betide Nathaniel Avery if he got in her way.