You Only Love Once (8 page)

A
ngelique ignored Lisette's raised eyebrows and went back to work, unpacking her things. Stafford still hadn't given her a clear idea of how she was to play her part, so she had brought enough clothing to last a year. If anything about Stafford could be called endearing, it would be his willingness to pay for such an extensive wardrobe, all of which she got to keep—whatever wasn't ruined in the course of the job, at any rate. But she had better learn soon how fashionable she was supposed to be, so Lisette could retrim some bonnets and adjust the gowns.

At least Avery looked more presentable today. No more shapeless brown coats and lumpy boots; he looked quite English in a well-fitted green coat and gray trousers, his boots shined to a gleam. He cleaned up very well, she had to admit. It had given her a moment's pause when she looked up to see him leaning so elegantly against her door. Then he opened his mouth and dispelled whatever fleeting impression she'd had that this might be easier than expected.
Dear wife
, he called her in his rolling American voice.
Darling
. As if he was enjoying this charade far too much. She had a sense of humor,
and certainly had nothing against flirting, but only when the work was taken very seriously. They were hunting a man, tracking him like an animal, and when they found him, she was supposed to kill him. She reminded herself that Avery didn't know that last bit, but he was an utter fool if he expected Dixon to be easily caught and subdued. No doubt chatting about politics in some well-appointed salon hadn't shown him how deadly a man could be when cornered.

There was some commotion in the corridor outside her door, and she looked up in time to see Avery's companion stagger past, holding up one end of an enormous trunk. He was talking to Avery decidedly as an equal, and not as servant to master. Even though she'd seen him already, the black man was startling in appearance, with skin the color of dark mahogany and an exotic accent she would wager came from the sugar plantations in the French Indies. He had exquisite manners and carried himself like no other servant, let alone slave, she had ever seen. They would have to have a good explanation for him, or they would be conspicuous in this neighborhood before breakfast tomorrow simply through the servants' chatter.

Avery himself went by then, holding up the other end of the trunk. He had discarded his coat and rolled up his sleeves, exposing muscular forearms tanned to a rich bronze. His hair was tied back today, and somehow it made him look leaner, stronger, and more dangerous. In Stafford's office she had dismissed him as a rumpled, naive colonial, but something about him had changed since then, more than just his clothes. Angelique crossed the room
and closed the door, not needing to see him parade up and down the corridor again.

“He bothers you, Madame,” said Lisette.

She lifted one shoulder. “He is but one of many things that bother me.” There was a loud thump from the bedroom next door, most likely the trunk hitting the floor, followed by the sound of cursing. She couldn't make out the exact words, but Avery's tone and inflection were clear even through the closed door. He was annoyed but not angry, and then he laughed. It was a nice sound, rich and carefree and honest.

“Americans are noisy,” sniffed Lisette, snapping Angelique out of her daze. She scowled as she realized she was standing stock-still, listening for the sound of his laughter. There was nothing funny about this. If only he wouldn't be so lackadaisical about everything. As disgusted with herself as she was with Avery, she stuffed the remaining clothing into the wardrobe and opened the last trunk. She lifted out her small writing desk, then the layer of books a lady of quality might read, and finally pulled up the false bottom. Underneath were her weapons, and somehow sliding her daggers out of their sheaths restored her composure. All her knives were weighted for throwing, since she was too small to win a fight at close quarters against a man, and holding the hard, cold hilts made her feel clear-headed. It was deadly to be otherwise, with knives like these. She tested the edges of every one before replacing them in the leather sheaths, uncoiled her garrote and examined the rope, and finally checked the pistol, her least favorite item. Let Avery laugh
and flirt his way through London; one of them had to be prepared for trouble.

When all was unpacked and the weapons safely stowed, she sent Lisette to arrange some luncheon, then knocked on the door to Avery's bedchamber.

He opened it himself, still in his shirtsleeves. “At last,” he said with a grin.

She ignored his words and the dimple in his cheek that only sprang into sight when he smiled. “I have sent my maid for something to eat,” she said. “If you are not otherwise occupied, we have things to discuss.”

“I am never otherwise occupied when my wife needs me,” he said. “Where shall we eat?”

“The dining room is the usual place, I believe.”

“Ah, but don't we need some measure of privacy?” His voice dropped on the last word, becoming just a shade rougher and darker. Something inside her quivered at the sensual undertone even as her irritation spiked that he persisted in flirting with her.

“Unless you are recommending the privy, I shall see you in the dining room.”

He laughed, that same rumble that had caught her attention before. “The dining room it is, if I can't persuade you to something more interesting.”

Angelique raised one brow. “What could be more interesting to a man than luncheon, after a morning of moving house?”

“We have a lot to learn about each other,” he told her.

She gave him a sardonic smile. “Indeed we do, and we shall. In the dining room.”

 

Downstairs, Lisette had laid out a spread of cold meats, some bread, fresh strawberries, and a plate of small cakes. A pitcher of water sat beside the strawberries, beaded with cool condensation. Angelique waited until the maid had left, closing the door behind her, before taking out her list.

“First we must decide how we are to be known,” she said.

He was filling a plate. “Mr. and Mrs. Avery should be sufficient.”

“There is nothing in that name that would alert Mr. Dixon of your interest in him?”

“Nothing more than usual; I've met him precisely twice, for a few moments. If he should happen to remember either occasion, I shall affect not to.”

“Twice!” She stared at him. “On this you have crossed an ocean and presented yourself as the only man who can apprehend him?”

“I have a good memory.” He winked at her, setting the plate in front of her. “Water?”

She pursed her lips, but nodded briefly. He filled her glass, and caught sight of her list. “Good Lord. Ought I to make notes, too?”

“You most certainly ought not. A man with a good memory will be able to recall everything, yes?”

This time he laughed as he heaped a plate for himself. “You'll be there to remind me.” Before she could stop him, he had plucked the list off the table. “Cards,” he read aloud. “Introductions. Dressmaker.” He looked warily at her over the paper. “We need to discuss dressmakers?”

Angelique rolled her eyes and put out her hand. “We must order cards. We must get introductions. In
short, we must announce ourselves to London if we are to be invited anywhere this fellow may be. Finding the proper dressmaker will be part of that.”

“I'll find him,” Avery said, still reading her list as he ate. Angelique sighed and picked at her own plate. “That's my task, isn't it? The only reason I'm permitted to be here at all?” He glanced up at her. “But I'm not so certain of
your
job.”

She met his sharp green gaze for a long moment. “If you did not want Stafford's help, why did you apply to him?” she asked, very softly. Lisette was under orders to keep the other servants away from the door, but one could never be too careful. “Did you really think he would just grant you leave to run about the country by yourself, abducting British citizens? He does not work thus, sir.”

He rested his arms on the table, leaning forward until their faces were mere inches apart. She noticed the lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes, little wrinkles of laughter in his sun-worn face. He was a bit younger than she had thought, just more weathered than most Englishmen. “I applied to him because I was under orders not to simply snatch the thieving bastard off the street and drag him back to New York in chains—which,” he added with a significant look, “I was more than willing to do. Still am, if it comes to it.” He shrugged. “But if I can avoid causing a diplomatic uproar, it will make things easier at home. And that doesn't answer my question about what you will be doing.”

She smiled slightly. “Helping you, of course.”

His lips quirked. He knew she was lying. “And mighty glad I am to have your help, my love.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“We are supposed to be married.” He grinned and handed back her list.

“
Unhappily
married,” she reminded him.

“Now, why is that?” he asked in reproach. “What came between us? Was it your cold and secretive manner, or all the women who throw themselves at me?”

“It is because you do not please me in bed.” She smiled sweetly at his startled expression. “It will explain why I must seek solace elsewhere.”

“Ah, yes, of course.” His eyes gleamed with mirth again. He was enjoying this tremendously, she realized—as was she, oddly enough. Perhaps it was the way he said,
I'll find him
when she mentioned Dixon, as if he had no doubt of his ability to do so. Perhaps it was the carelessly ruthless way he expressed his intention to drag Dixon home in chains. Perhaps it was just the way he was different today than he had been in Stafford's office, sharper, harder, more focused. Somehow he didn't seem quite so amateur now, despite the flirting and joking. In fact, he put her in mind of Ian, who had always been her favorite agent to work with, despite these little attempts at discerning her role—although she had to admit, in his place she would do much the same.

“You believed I was incompetent,” he said. Angelique blinked in surprise that he had read her thoughts, and he grinned wickedly. “In bed. Perhaps you thought I was…inexperienced. Unskilled. Naive, even. Ah, my poor wife; no wonder you've been so cold and reserved with me. It's made us almost strangers to each other, hasn't it? Such a pity.” He caught her hand from the table and lifted
it to his lips. “Rest assured I shall do everything in my power to convince you of my…true talents. In bed and elsewhere.”

She let him fondle her hand. “Talent cannot replace experience. Even a prodigy needs persistent practice to become a master.”

He chuckled, tracing one fingertip down the sensitive side of her palm. “And it's too late for me, eh? All my life until now has been a waste, if I cannot please you. I would only beg you to consider that we don't know everything about each other. I may yet surprise you.”

Not if she were any good at her job. Angelique was always willing to believe people more capable than they appeared; indeed, it would be fatal to underestimate anyone in her line of work. Today Avery had proved himself more than the stuffy dilettante he had appeared in Bow Street, but he was not a professional. Even a motivated amateur would be more cautious. He left himself too open, too unguarded. He was approaching this with far too much amusement, and far too much interest in her. Spying was often boring, with long hours spent waiting and watching. There was plenty of time for teasing and fun, but later, once the hard work of setting up the job was done.

Still, it was his commission they were on. If they failed, it would not matter much to her, except for the sake of professional pride.

When he tugged on her hand, she allowed him to pull her toward him. “But you do not have to surprise me,” she said gently. “I am quite used to pleasing myself. I would beg of
you
, husband, to let me take you in hand, and let me guide you. Because you see, I know very well what I am doing.”

“I do so
respect
a woman with experience,” he murmured. “You may take me in your hands any time.”

“Good. We shall get on splendidly then.” He was doing lovely things to her hand, she had to admit. Angelique watched him feather his lips over the pulse in her wrist and tried to hide how that made her stomach flutter in spite of herself. Perhaps he should be the one sent out to seduce. Not her, of course; his seductions would not work on her. But on another, unsuspecting woman …Too bad it was a man they sought.

He flashed a lazy, sensuous smile, and pressed a tender kiss to her now-throbbing pulse. “I am delighted to hear that. And we didn't have to say one word of dressmakers.”

She laughed, pulling her hand free. She had let him hold it far too long already. “No, now that we are in agreement, there is no need for that.” She laid down her napkin and rose, folding her list into the pocket of her skirt. “I will see to these details, and leave you to your task, as you wished.”

He surged to his feet. “You've not finished eating.”

Angelique glanced at her barely touched plate. He had filled it for her, with more food than she could eat in two meals. But of course it only proved that he knew nothing about her. “I am not very hungry at the moment. Lisette will bring something later.”

Nate debated a moment. He'd rather liked how things were going, and felt it was far more important that they understand and trust each other than that they speak the same sterile lies. But then she turned toward the door and he scrambled to catch
her before she put the final touch on her condescending dismissal and left. “We have to be able to trust each other,” he said, just managing to get one hand against the door in time.

Two thin lines appeared between her brows. “No, we must be able to work together. That is all.”