You Only Love Once (10 page)

“No,” she said with a little smile. “Are you not relieved to hear I shall leave that to you alone?”

Perhaps. Perhaps not. “I am only trying to learn from your advice yesterday,” he said, “and make appropriate plans. So you are only going to help locate him; I presume it will also be my task to secure his person for the trip to New York.”

“I am under no explicit instruction to help you do that, either,” she agreed.

But there was nothing left, except the simple act of finding the man. Nate still thought his plan was sensible, and it was certainly one he could carry out
without her presence. If he was also supposed to capture Dixon, get him safely on the
Water Asp
, and then find the missing funds on his own…What was her purpose? This was doing nothing to settle his unease about Stafford's true interests.

“So,” he said, drawing out the word suggestively, “you won't be much help at all. I could visit jewel shops on my own.”

“I shall do my best to be as helpful as possible.”

“Just not as enlightening as possible,” he muttered. She simply smiled, acknowledging the point without yielding an inch.

This could be a problem. He couldn't trust her, not as long as he didn't know what she really intended to do, but he could keep only so much to himself. In fact, so far he'd kept very little to himself; his goals and plans had been laid before her almost in their entirety. He had gone through the appropriate channels, as directed, and she was operating as an agent of the British government, which had given him assurances they would do all they could to help him…find the man. Finally Nate realized that point: they had never promised anything else. Selwyn had expressed shock at the amount of the missing funds and agreed that of course he must do all he could to retrieve it. Stafford had brought him to Madame Martand, saying she was most capable. But all they had done was agree that Dixon must be caught at all costs. Again he wondered just what motivated the British government so strongly to leap to his assistance. Perhaps it was President Monroe's letter, and perhaps it was something else. But what? Dixon had been in America for at least a decade. He was English by birth, it was true, but
Nate doubted that was any motivating factor. Now that he thought carefully, he wasn't sure he'd even mentioned it to Lord Selwyn. The only thing Nate could think of was that Selwyn, and by extension Stafford, didn't trust him; that Madame was here to ensure he merely apprehended Dixon and reclaimed only the funds stolen from New York, no more. That was plausible…perhaps.

“Then we shall begin this afternoon,” he said.

“Very well.” Without another word she closed the door in his face.

Slowly Nate walked into his own room, still thinking. It was beginning to fester in his mind. What was her real purpose? And why?

N
o answer had occurred to him when they went out that afternoon, but Madame played her part beautifully. He was impressed by her ability to maintain such a bored facade for so long. Even when they stopped to take tea, she kept it up, listening to him with a slightly vacant expression. To disguise their interest in jewels, they stopped in several other shops as well, and again Madame gave a good show, deliberating over ribbons and having the mercer bring out bolt after bolt of silk before deciding she didn't like any of them after all. Anyone following them would form a strong view of her as a woman difficult to please. For his part, Nate didn't have to feign his impatience with it all; not only did it delay any actual progress they might be making, but her attitude, no matter how feigned, was driving him mad. And there were moments, when he caught a flash of amusement in her expressive dark eyes, that he knew she was laughing at him.

His reaction, of course, was to embrace it. Provoked by her disinterested air, straining at the bit to accomplish something, and furious at himself for finding her so fascinating in spite of her clear
lack of interest in being friendly, Nate flirted with her at every turn, making a great show of doting on his “wife.” He called her his love, his darling, his beloved; he repaid every disinterested glance with a lavish compliment. He never missed a chance to touch her, whether on the elbow or the hand or, once, on the cheek as he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. He rather thought he should be dead from the freezing glances she gave him, but she never gave in and engaged him.

It took several days of visiting shops, talking loudly and rather gauchely about what jewels he wished to purchase, before Nate's plan to track Dixon bore fruit. It was at a smaller shop, one he had added to his list as time wore on and they found no trace of the jewels they sought. Tucked at the far end of Bond Street, it had a surprisingly large selection. The proprietor, Mr. Smythe, brought out necklace after necklace for their inspection. Madame was brilliant, as she had been all along, as a bored, vain wife, turning up her nose at every tasteful piece and always asking for something bigger. When the man was ready to tear out his hair, Nate leaned back in his chair and described what they would really like, one of the flashier pieces Dixon had bought.

“I saw just such a pendant in New York a few months ago,” he finished, “but by the time I went back to buy it, someone else had snatched it up.”

“An emerald pendant, heart-shaped, surrounded by small diamonds,” murmured the jeweler. “I do not have such a piece myself, sir, but something very similar was offered to me less than a week ago.”

“Indeed?” Nate let his acute interest show. “By whom? I had my eye on that necklace and was most
disappointed to lose it.” He smiled at Madame. “There, my dear, who knew something like it would turn up in London?”

“If you'll excuse me but a moment, I shall look it up.” Looking happier now himself, Mr. Smythe excused himself from the small private room where they sat.

“Could it be the same one you saw in New York?” asked Madame idly, smoothing her gloves.

Nate also kept up his persona. “Oh, likely not, my pet. Still, it's a distinctive pendant, and would look splendid at your lovely bosom. I have regretted letting it go ever since I saw it.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but the jeweler had returned. “Yes, I made a note of it, as I always do when offered especially fine pieces,” Mr. Smythe said with a courtly smile. “Naturally I cannot purchase every piece that is offered to me, unless I have a buyer already in mind, particularly a piece of that quality and value. But a gentleman offered me a pendant as you describe, as well as some matching bracelets, barely four days ago.”

“But that's excellent news,” exclaimed Nate. He couldn't resist turning to his “wife.” “We shall have it by the end of the week, love.” She gave him a simpering smile even as her eyes reflected her acknowledgment of his victory. He looked at the jeweler. “How shall I contact this fellow?”

“Er…he is a discreet gentleman who often assists families who have fallen on hard times, sir,” murmured the jeweler. “He does not like to be approached directly.”

“Come now,” objected Nate. “I don't like that. An honest man is willing to meet me face-to-face to con
duct business. I don't want to buy a necklace from someone who hides his face and name; the next thing I know, some wealthy old woman will have the authorities at my door, insisting her nephew stole her necklace and sold it without her knowledge. Tell me his name.”

Mr. Smythe hesitated, his interest in his commission warring against the logic of Nate's argument. “He is Mr. Davis Hurst,” he said at last, quietly. “You may make inquiries if you like, but I believe he offers his assistance only to those of unquestionable integrity. Shall I contact him and make arrangements to purchase the necklace, sir?”

“I shall want proof of the pendant's provenance,” he warned.

“Of course,” said the jeweler at once.

“And the bracelets—you did say there are bracelets?”

“Yes, indeed, two perfectly matched bracelets of hammered gold, set with emeralds.”

Nate nodded once. “Excellent. Get the set.” He scribbled the number of the house on Varden Street on the back of one of the new cards Madame had ordered, and handed it to the jeweler. “Our London establishment.”

“Very good, sir.” The jeweler took the card and showed them out with a smile.

In the street, Nate waited a moment as Madame fussed with her bonnet before offering her his arm. “Well, my dear, I shall have those emeralds around your throat before the end of the week.”

“So you say,” she replied. “We shall see if your word means anything.”

He laughed, pulling her closer to him. Unpre
pared, she swayed into him, her breast pressing against his arm before she jerked back with a frosty look. “I always keep my word,” he told her. “I told you this approach would work, didn't I?”

“That was not a promise you made, that was your arrogant overconfidence speaking.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Arrogant overconfidence? I thought you wanted a man who knows what he's doing.”

“Yes,
knows
,” she returned. “You did not know this would work; you assumed. And as of yet, there is no proof that it has worked.”

Nate thought it had been a pretty logical assumption, and a proven good one since it had paid off within such a short time. Madame was irked at him for being right. “Let it not come between us,” he said magnanimously.

“There is plenty of room for that, and a great many other things. But enough arguing. I will learn where we can find this Mr. Hurst, and we shall see for ourselves whether your fanciful scheme has succeeded or not.” She tilted her head and regarded him thoughtfully. “I will leave you to deal with the question of the actual necklace.”

Nate bowed his head. “Thank you, my love.”

She sighed and shook her head. “No more endearments, please.”

“But how else shall I address you?” He feigned bewilderment. “I cannot call you Madame Martand. Do you prefer Mrs. Avery?”

“If you wish.”

“And yet we Americans are not so formal as the British,” he went on thoughtfully. “My father calls
my mother Bess, not Mrs. Avery or Elizabeth. I rather fancied such close affection in my own marriage.”

“You might yet find it, when you are married.”

The streets were bustling with people. They had joined the flow of pedestrians and kept their voices low, so no one would overhear, even if anyone could see what they did. So far Madame had strolled along with an expression as serene as if they discussed the weather. Nate felt somewhat free to bedevil her, since she could do little to respond at the moment. He bent his head until he could smell the lavender scent of her hair. “I'm happy enough at the moment,” he murmured. “And there is only one solution to my quandary: I shall call you Angelique.”

She pinched his arm in warning, but only smiled. “If you wish.”

There. He'd made one small inroad. Content to savor that victory, Nate patted her hand, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

N
ate had to admit, whatever resources she called upon, Angelique was able to discover quite a lot about Davis Hurst in a very short time. Hurst lived in a modest house off Broad Street; he was a bachelor of middle years; he wore a distinctive wolf's head signet ring on one hand; and he spent much of his time, including dinner most nights, at his club in St. James's Street. For entertainment, he preferred the Vauxhall Gardens, although he was also known to frequent the theater during the Season.

There was one more thing. “For all that Mr. Smythe said, Hurst is little more than a fence,” Angelique told him the next day. “He has quite a reputation for selling things for young men who have gambling debts, and he does not take care to establish that the item being sold is a true possession of the person who engages him. Most times it is within a family, and the family does not wish to kick up a row over the missing silver teapot or Mama's pearls. Monsieur Hurst has encountered a bit of trouble from time to time, but always manages to wiggle out from under it. He is a clever one.”

Nate was reading the summary of her informa
tion about Hurst. “Vauxhall,” he said. “A public pleasure garden?” When she nodded, he tapped the paper. “That's our best bet to encounter him.”

“I thought you wished to call on him.”

He shook his head. “Why draw that much attention to ourselves? A chance encounter at a public garden won't raise any suspicions that might cause him to warn Dixon.”

“If he is even the man who can lead us to Dixon,” she reminded him. “We must not presume he is the answer.”

“Of course not. We should keep visiting shops in search of the jewels. Part of my purpose is to recover them as well as Dixon's miserable person.” Nate put aside her list and studied her. He still couldn't tell when she was mocking him or teasing, and when she was completely serious. He decided this time she had made a good point, which must be acknowledged seriously, but that she also liked needling him, just a little, every chance she got. “I shall be very well educated, should I ever need to purchase jewels in truth.”

A little smile crossed her face. “Perhaps for your affectionate marriage.”

“Ah, yes. Unlike the one I enjoy now.”

“Enjoy?” She was amused. “Endure, perhaps.”

“Now, darling, you mustn't think you're that great a trial to me,” he replied.

She sighed. She leaned forward, her dark eyes soft and bright, no trace of anger on her face. Nate felt himself listing toward her, as if pulled by some invisible force. “You must stop flirting,” she said evenly. “Or I shall be forced to retaliate.”

He thought about that for a moment. “How?”

She stretched out her neck, almost as if she meant to kiss him. Her lips curved in a smile of pure sin, and her eyes half closed in sensual invitation. Nate's breath stuck in his throat and he stared in suspenseful anticipation. “I shall start flirting back,” she whispered.

She might have just shown him Medusa's head. Nate wasn't sure if he should try to provoke her into doing it, just to see…or if he should ward her off like the devil come to steal his soul. As he sat like a statue, dumbstruck and aroused by the threat, her smile changed to one more kindly.

“Do not be overly alarmed,” she said, getting to her feet. “I will remember you are an unsophisticated colonial, and be gentle with you.” And then she was gone, sweeping past him and out of the room.

 

Angelique hadn't been to Vauxhall in over a year, but it had not changed as far as she could see. It was still as dark and merry as she remembered, filled with people in every mode of dress from elegant to working-class best. The orchestra was better this year, she thought, but the punch was worse.

“What if he's not here tonight?” Avery said, his expression easy even though his eyes roved constantly over the crowd. They had been at the gardens for over an hour with no sign of anyone who could be Davis Hurst.

“We return tomorrow.”

He shot her a sideways glance. “Will that interfere with your plans?”

She pressed her lips together. “My plans, Mr. Avery, are to find our man, whether here, in New-gate, or in the halls of Parliament.”

“My name is Nate,” he said under his breath. “My dearest Angelique.”

She tried to ignore it; he was trying to provoke her. He had said he would call her by name yesterday, but this was the first time he had done so. Being called by name didn't bother her, but the rest did, too much. “If I call you by name, will you relent on the endearments?”

He gave her one of those wary sideways glances he seemed prone to. Mr. Avery was still trying to puzzle her out, it seemed. Much luck to him, she thought, keeping her face serene. “Yes,” he said, drawing out the word as if he would qualify it but didn't.

She smiled coolly, lifting her fan to wave it languidly in front of her face. Calling him by name didn't bother her, either. “Then we have an agreement, Nate.”

He beamed in response, a wide, delighted grin. They walked some more, making desultory conversation from time to time. They certainly attracted some attention, by design. She had dressed in a provocative dress and smiled boldly back at everyone who nodded to them. Her information about Hurst had indicated he let himself be guided by his privy parts, and engaged in numerous clandestine encounters. Most were with prostitutes, but reports were that he wasn't above taking advantage of women he considered beneath him, particularly if they left themselves vulnerable. Angelique saw this as a fatal weakness on Hurst's part, and one she could exploit. She had agreed with Nate that at the first sign of the man, he would walk away and leave Hurst to her manipulations.

But in order to seduce him into revealing his secrets, she first had to locate him, and no one fitting Hurst's description was anywhere to be seen in the pleasure gardens. By the time Nate pulled out his watch to check the time, she was beginning to think tonight would be a waste after all.

“Shall we go soon?” he asked. “Surely it's getting late for a man to arrive for the evening.”

She fanned herself some more. “Before the fireworks?” He cocked his head, and she smiled faintly, admitting her joke. “Soon. Fashionable London is out late into the night.”

“Very well.” He put away his watch. “Would you like some wine?”

Angelique nodded. “Thank you.”

He left her in a quiet spot and headed toward the Grand Pavilion. Angelique drifted a little more into the shadows. Part of the reason she hadn't been to Vauxhall in so long was the density and variety of people here. There was safety in the masses, but also loss of control. Just as she could become anyone and anything in the crowd, so could others, and it was much harder to track them when throngs of people were in the way. She preferred to work in the background, where she was less likely to be noticed. When she did call attention to herself, as she had done tonight, it was deliberate and carefully done, but it was also not without risk.

“I say,” said a voice behind her, as if to punctuate her thoughts. “Don't I know you?”

Angelique didn't turn, as if she hadn't realized he addressed her. She had noticed a man watching her some time ago. That alone didn't trouble her; it was the expression on his face as he watched her, rather
puzzled and determined, as if he recognized her but couldn't quite put his finger on why. It was an ever-present risk in her line of work, and the most she could do about it was try to keep her distance, and keep her back to him at all costs. Nate's constant motion had helped in that regard, and no doubt his presence had deterred the man approaching her—until now. Not for the first time, she cursed Stafford for sending her out on this assignment.

But this fellow must have remembered where he had seen her, or become too curious to ignore it, because he persisted even as she ignored his question. He touched her shoulder, letting his fingers linger a moment too long. She turned, arranging her face in offended surprise, and saw him smiling at her, a little coldly. Suddenly she remembered all too well where he had seen her before, and who he was; there was no doubt it had been on another of Stafford's assignments. She breathed deep to calm the fluttering in her stomach, and prepared to lie.

“Good evening, madam,” he said. He had the upper-class drawl she had come to associate with the self-indulgent sort of nobleman who gambled too much, whored too frequently, and was too easily tempted by troublemakers. Fortunately, they weren't often that clever, although this one unfortunately had enough wit to remember her face.

“Good evening, sir,” she said, dipping a shallow curtsey. She needed to hold him off only a few moments, surely, until Nate returned. It couldn't take long to fetch a glass of wine.

He leaned closer, inspecting her face. He was a viscount, Angelique remembered suddenly, who liked French brandy and young girls. He was a compan
ion of the Marquis of Bethwell, whom she had been assigned to spy on while posing as his private nurse, just a few months past. He and the marquis were evenly matched in their depravity. She suspected the viscount had the French pox, by the rash she had once seen on his hands, but she couldn't remember his name. “I remember you,” he announced.

“
Remember
me?” She blinked, widening her eyes in astonishment. “I don't believe we have met, sir.” Deliberately she repressed all but a trace of her accent, mimicking Nate's flat American tones. When she worked for Bethwell, she had spoken crisp King's English. Hopefully, it would be enough…

The viscount tilted his head, studying her. He didn't look fooled. “Not formally. I always wondered…No nurse ever looked like you. And I see you've given it up, along with those drab gray dresses.”

Angelique silently cursed even as her heart kicked against her ribs. God above, he did remember her. He must have seen her a handful of times at Bethwell's mansion, tending to the marquis's hypochondria. She had always wondered why a man so obsessed with his own health could tolerate being around such an obviously pox-ridden friend; now the friend turned out to have an alarming memory as well. And where the devil was Nathaniel Avery when she would finally have welcomed his presence? Had he gone all the way to Mayfair for the damned wine? She pasted a confused look on her face. “Nurse? I don't understand. I'm not a nurse.”

Now the viscount's expression turned calculating, hard and unpleasant. “Not anymore? Bethwell tossed you out, I know; he told me,” he said as she continued to look at him with bewilderment, de
spite her thundering pulse. “He said you grew too temperamental.”

“You have confused me with someone else,” she said. “Excuse me, I must find my husband.”

“He couldn't get you in bed, could he?” He followed her as she turned and walked away. “I knew he'd never hire a fine piece of quim like you and not try to get between her legs.”

“Sir!” She whirled around, hoping the heat in her face would be mistaken for outraged modesty instead of the killing urge it was. If he hadn't approached her in full view of dozens of people, she could have dealt with him easily. Unfortunately, some of those people were sure to notice if she pulled her knife from beneath her skirt, so she was reduced to escaping. “That is indecent and insulting! How dare you?”

He laughed. “Insult a woman who makes her living on her back? I don't think that's possible.”

Her fingers twitched, aching to feel the hilt of her dagger. Or the stock of a pistol. Even if she hadn't known him to be twisted and depraved, she would hate him and want to hurt him for the offensive way he looked at her, as if she were an animal he could buy and abuse and leave to whatever suffering he had inflicted. Fury burned in her blood that a man like this could freely roam the finest parts of London and be respected and admired. A little of her control slipped. “I believe,” she said evenly, “you have made a mistake.”

“I don't think so,” he said, smiling again. “But if you don't want to be exposed, I'm sure we can come to an…agreement.”

“What sort of agreement?” asked a deadly quiet
voice behind Angelique. Like a bird released from a cage, her heart soared and she gasped in a full breath for the first time in minutes.

The viscount hadn't noticed Nate approaching, either, from the way he started at the question. “A private arrangement,” he replied, drawing himself up stiffly.

“Private?” Nate cocked one eyebrow and looked at Angelique, slipping his arm around her waist in a gesture of familiar possession. “Anything you say to my wife is my concern, sir. What sort of agreement?”

The viscount hesitated. Angelique leaped in. “He said I had no morals, and made my living on my back,” she said, inching closer to Nate's comforting bulk. “He claimed I have been a
nurse
.”

“Indeed,” said Nate in surprise. “And we've only been in London a few days.”

The viscount had recovered from his surprise. Nate's accent marked him as an American, and to an English nobleman, that meant he was nobody. His physical presence wasn't especially fearsome; he was no taller than the viscount, and was of leaner build. The viscount didn't see him as much threat. “A misunderstanding,” he said with a trace of condescension. His pale, glittering gaze drifted once more over Angelique's face. “My mistake.”

Nate smiled. “Ah, of course.” He released Angelique and took a step forward to clap one hand on the viscount's shoulder, as if they were old friends. “I'm sure it won't happen again.” The viscount stiffened. His shoulders hunched and he let out a gulping squeak. Angelique dared a glance around Nate, who was almost chest to chest with the viscount, and
realized his other hand had gone to the man's groin. He was holding the viscount by the ballocks, unless she missed her guess, and very firmly so. “But if you even look at my wife again, I'll tear them off,” Nate added in a silky murmur she barely heard.