You Only Love Once (7 page)

Her brow wrinkled. “Hmm. I do not think so…”

“I've been trying to make out some of the carvings,” he said, gesturing toward the grave in front of him, a moss-covered stone listing slightly to one side. “There must be a dozen generations here.”

She smiled. “Indeed, there are! Some families have been here for centuries.”

“So I see.” Nate leaned forward and squinted at the nearest marker. “Two hundred years, in this gentleman's case.”

“I would be glad to walk with you and look. Perhaps along the fence.”

“Thank you, ma'am.” They walked along, Nate studying each stone with a thoughtful frown. The graveyard was neatly tended, although time and weather had taken a toll. When they passed the flower-strewn grave, he hid his interest; there was no need to peer closely at it. It was obviously old, perhaps as old as the two-centuries-old grave a few feet away. The names were weathered into near-oblivion, although he made out the surname Wilkins and a date in the 1600s in his quick glance at the stone. So Madame wasn't mourning a close
relative or friend. He wondered again why she had come all the way out here, just to leave flowers on an ancient grave.

As they walked Mrs. Carswell chatted politely. He answered obligingly, again sticking closely to the truth. His great-grandparents had died about forty years ago, give or take, well before he was born. His mother had gone to America shortly before they died, and met his father there. No, he didn't think his mother had ever come home to England. His grandparents were also dead, buried in Hertfordshire where his grandfather had been an attorney. He wasn't quite sure where his great-grandparents were buried, and his mother had forgotten; the only thing she could recall was that they had lived near Richmond. That last bit was false, unless one counted anywhere in England as “near Richmond,” but overall Nate felt fairly honest. And he said a silent apology to his keen-witted mother for implying, even to a stranger who would never know better, that she had grown forgetful in her old age.

“I've visited at least a dozen graveyards between here and Richmond,” he said with an apologetic smile. “I shall know half the curates in England before I return home, it seems.”

Mrs. Carswell smiled. “Such dedication! You must love your mother very much, to honor her wishes so.”

“Indeed, ma'am, I do.” By careful maneuvering he had managed to end where they had begun, right at the grave in question. Nate glanced at it. “I should have liked to leave such a token, but it seems not to be. At least not today.”

She followed his gaze. “Yes. Perhaps you will have better luck in Ealing, or Twickenham.”

“I hope I might.” He bowed again. “Thank you again for your courtesy and kindness, Mrs. Carswell.”

“Of course.” She smiled and bobbed a polite curtsey, but Nate felt her sharp eyes on his back all the way down the road. And he still didn't know why Madame Martand had come.

N
ate had to admit Stafford kept his word on moving swiftly. By the time he returned to London, a message had arrived laying out a plan. Nate and Madame Martand were to be man and wife, newly arrived from America. A house had been let in their name and they were to take possession the next day. He and Madame Martand were to work out the details of their masquerade, but under the general guise of a wealthy couple come to acquire some London polish and sample the delights of town, with some business on the side. It was Nate's duty to figure out how to locate Jacob Dixon and run him to ground; Madame, Stafford wrote, would be as helpful as she could.

He read the letter twice, then sat thinking. Only when Prince growled at him did he realize he was tapping the letter on the table, and put it aside.

“How bad is it?” his friend asked with a sly grin. “Are we not to have the pretty French lady after all?”

Nate bared his teeth in an answering smile. “Not only are we to have her, she's to be my wife.” Prince
snorted in disgusted amusement, and Nate laughed. “Wait until you meet her. I shall have to sleep with one eye open and a pistol in my hand.”

“It is where your other hand will be that concerns me.” Prince laughed. “I suppose that will be for the general's benefit as well, eh?”

Nate threw an empty powder horn at him. Prince caught it and gave him a severe look. “The best thing it will do is get us off this ship,” Nate said. They had reached London a week ago, but he'd stayed on board the
Water Asp
because he didn't want to announce himself in any way. The
Water Asp
belonged to his father's shipping company and was here on a routine trading run. Nate's parents had sent him with their blessings to capture Ben Davies's thieving secretary, but no one else save President Monroe knew he was here. Everyone had been told Nate was going back out west, exploring the wilderness beyond the Mississippi. His name wasn't on the
Water Asp
's manifest, and he had routed every expense through the ship's captain, who had been with Boudin Shipping for years and was sworn to secrecy.

Now he and Prince were snapping at each other from too much time in too close quarters. A house would allow them to spread out—although how he would explain Prince's work was something Nate hadn't figured out. There would be the servants who were on Stafford's coin and couldn't be entirely trusted, much like his new, temporary, wife. Nate allowed himself a little smile at the thought of how that first meeting would go. He might as well find some enjoyment in this venture.

And then, of course, he had to set a trap to catch a thief.

 

She had already arrived by the time he reached the house in Varden Street the next morning. Nate paused on the threshold of the wide-open door, listening to the voices abovestairs. The house was furnished, but very simply, and sound echoed off the bare walls and floors. She was speaking French, with another woman—perhaps her maid, he thought, recalling the servant he'd seen when he followed her the other day. He glanced at Prince, coming up the steps behind him with a large crate of equipment in his arms, and unconsciously squared his shoulders before stepping into the house.

Servants were cleaning the dining room, sweeping briskly. Holland covers still shrouded the furniture in the drawing room while a maid cleaned the windows. By the time he reached the second floor, he could make out some of the conversation. His French, learned from the fur traders of Quebec, wasn't quite on par with Madame's, but he understood enough. He leaned against the doorway. “
Bonjour
.”

She looked up from folding stockings into a drawer. “Good morning,” she replied evenly.

Nate grinned. That hadn't been what she was saying to her maid, who was the sturdy-looking woman he had seen the other day. Madame Martand might have agreed to this plan, but apparently not with much enthusiasm. That would have to change, at least nominally, because failure was utterly unacceptable to him. “A very good morning it is, since it brings me the sight of you, dear wife.”

Her expression grew severe at the endearment. She nodded at the other woman. “My maid, Lisette,
will help you unpack, if you have no man with you.”

Prince had tromped up the stairs behind him and chose that moment to peer into the room, no doubt wanting a look at the French lady. Nate had the pleasure, and chagrin, of seeing Madame's eyes widen and blink at the sight of him. They were going to have a very difficult time if she objected to Prince, and yet anything that discomposed her gave him some satisfaction.

“No need,” he said easily in reply to her remark. “I can unpack my trunk myself. Prince will see to the other things; he'll need a workshop. The next floor up, do you think? It must be a bright room.”

Her dark eyes moved back to him. “
Oui
,” she murmured. “There is a nursery, large and bright.”

Prince nodded and carried his crate to the turn of the stairs, pausing just out of her view to flash Nate an absolutely gleeful grin. “Make sure you get all the trunks up there,” Nate called after him. “Especially the red one.” The red one held the weapons and lead shot, and weighed a ton. It had taken two men to carry it off the ship. Prince just laughed, the sound booming back down the stairs and hall. Cheeky scoundrel.

Nate turned his attention to the women, who had gone back to unpacking and were ignoring him. Feminine clothing was strewn all over the bed and chaise, in froths of ribbons and lace in every color imaginable. The wardrobe doors stood open, as did every drawer on the bureau and dressing table. He ambled into the room, taking everything in. It looked utterly mundane, just an ordinary, though well-dressed, woman's bedroom. It was somewhat
disappointing; he'd expected to see knives and pistols inside the hatboxes. He brushed aside a striped green dress and sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing a little on the thick mattress. “I'll sleep on this side, if you don't mind.”

Her lip curled. “You shall sleep on
that
side—of the door.” She waved one hand toward the connecting room.

Nate, who had deliberately ignored that door, made a face of disappointment. “What sort of way is this to start our marriage? I'm heartbroken already.”

“Better your heart than something else.”

“I had hoped we might be closer than all that.”

“But we are much too fashionable for anything so vulgar.” She crossed the room and opened the door in question, revealing another bedroom. “Your quarters, sir.”

“Fashion is a cold and wretched bedfellow,” he told her as he reluctantly rose from her bed.

She smiled coldly. “So am I.”

Nate didn't make any attempt to hide his open perusal as he approached. By God she was beautiful, even with that sharp, dangerous smile on her face. From the top of her dark curls to the tips of her kid slippers, peeping out below her blue skirt, there wasn't a single thing wrong with her figure that he could see. He stopped in front of her and looked her up and down once more. “Maybe I'd be willing to chance it,” he said mildly. “Maybe you've just never learned how to be warm and inviting in bed.”

She laughed. “You'll never know what I've learned in bed.”

A flash of erotic possibilities blurred through his
mind at her tone. Nate had to grind his teeth behind his smile to quell his body's reaction to them. He folded his arms and leaned closer, watching the way her eyes changed as he did so. They were as dark as sin, and sparkling with amusement. “Here I never thought to hear you admit any deficiency. Come, darling, for the sake of our marriage, I can overlook it.”

“Ah, but for the sake of your object, I cannot,” she purred.

“Right,” he murmured, letting his gaze linger on her lips until she flattened them in irritation. Then he straightened and walked into his chamber, throwing open the door to the corridor. “Prince!” he bellowed. “Help me get the trunks!”

He closed the door on the good-natured grumbling that came from upstairs, and turned to survey his room more critically. It was large and bright, with windows on two sides. The house was on the end of a long row of town houses, and he'd seen the high fence running around the small garden out back, with a gate—he opened a window and looked out—right underneath his window. That could be convenient later. He opened the other windows as well, drawing in a deep breath of air that was blissfully almost free of the ocean. Lord, it would feel good to sleep in a proper bed again, in a room that didn't rock and sway with the tide.

Madame still stood in the doorway between their bedrooms, arms folded. He gave her his most charming smile. “Have you reconsidered banishing me to my own chamber?”

“He is your slave?” she asked, nodding her head slightly in the direction of the stairs.

“No,” said Nate, still grinning.

“Your servant?”

“No.”

She gave him a sharp look. “You will have to have a suitable explanation for his presence.”

“Don't worry,” said Nate. “We'll come up with something.”

Prince opened the door then and stuck his head in. “Did you mean to fetch those trunks now, or later, Nathaniel?”

“Now.” Nate turned to Madame. “My good friend, Prince Chesterfield. Prince, Madame Martand.”

Prince's teeth gleamed in a wide smile. “A delightful pleasure, Madame.” He gave her a courtly bow. “Mr. Avery tells me you will be an invaluable part of our efforts.”

“I shall do my best,” she replied.

“I'll be right down,” Nate told Prince, who nodded and left, his footfalls thumping down the stairs.

Madame turned on him, eyes flashing fury. “That man is a slave,” she hissed. “There is a brand on his arm.”

“That man
was
a slave,” Nate corrected her. “Not any longer. If his presence causes you pain—”

“It is not my feelings you should consider,” she said with a slash of one hand. “He will have to stay here in this house. You cannot send him about London, even with the brand covered. If he were detained and the brand discovered, it would make things very difficult for us. Slaves are uncommon in London.”

“Don't worry, he won't be going out with us. He's a freedman, but he can pose as a servant.”

She didn't look pleased with this idea. “He does not act like the average servant.”

Nate was quiet for a moment. “Fine. I shall warn him to keep out of sight.”

She hesitated. Her eyes veered away, to the room behind her where her own maid still worked. She stepped closer and lowered her voice even more. “Mr. Avery, if this enterprise is to succeed, you must be honest with me. If you had told Mr. Stafford you had a black man with you—”

“It wouldn't have made a damned bit of difference. Prince has other talents which render him invaluable, even to Stafford's way of thinking.”

“Such as?”

Nate smiled and waved one hand. “This and that. You'll have to trust me.”

She gave him a look that said trusting him was the last thing she wanted to do. “Very well—for now. We must arrange our story as soon as possible. So far I have acted rather remote and temperamental, and had Lisette manage the servants. You might do the same.”

“They're not Stafford's people, then?” he asked, wondering if she would even know.

“No,” she said. “He is too tightfisted for that. They will clean the house, then go. We shall talk over luncheon.” Without waiting for approval, she turned and walked back into her room, pulling closed the door between them.