You Only Love Once (22 page)

S
he followed Nate down the stairs and into his bedchamber. This time he shut the door behind them, reinforcing her feeling of being increasingly closed in by this wretched assignment. She went to the fireplace, where a blaze crackled in the grate, wishing it could burn away her rampaging unease.

“We have to verify it,” she said, staring at the flickering flames. “You have told me many times he is a skillful liar.”

“Of course we have to verify it,” said Nate, his voice right at her shoulder. She couldn't stop her flinch when he ran his finger down the side of her neck. “I wouldn't be surprised to learn every word he said is a lie.” He paused. His lips brushed the skin below her ear, and in spite of her anxiety, Angelique quivered at the pleasures of his touch. “However,” he murmured, “I also wouldn't be surprised to learn every word is true.”

She closed her eyes. Unfortunately, her feeling was the same. She had worked for John Stafford for almost a decade, trusting in the rightness of his objectives even if not always in his methods. But twice this year alone she had seen him proved deceptive
and willing to use his spies for petty, if not outright ignoble, purposes. It had shaken her far more than she wanted to admit, even to herself. If he had lied to her this year, how many times had it happened in the past? If he had sent her to do something—to kill someone—completely unrelated to maintaining England's law and order, how many times had he done so in the past, when she never knew?

Angelique was good at what she did, and she made no excuses for it; some people did not deserve to live. But no one should be killed to hide someone else's secrets. If what Dixon said was true, then Angelique faced two terrible possibilities: either Selwyn had lied to Stafford, accusing Jacob Dixon of sins so egregious that Stafford had no hesitation in ordering him killed; or Selwyn had not lied but simply said to kill him, and Stafford did so just because Lord Selwyn asked. Either way, she couldn't kill Dixon, but if the first possibility was correct, she would have to tell Stafford, knowing full well he might next send her after Selwyn himself. For all his own lies and deceptions, Stafford did not like being lied to and made a fool. That would be bad enough. But if the second was correct…It would be much, much worse.

Nate was still stroking her neck, pressing his strong, capable fingers into the taut muscles there, letting her think, trying to soothe at least part of the strain. How she loved that about him, that he could see when she was thinking and not feel the need to tell her what to do. He had been honest with her, and now she would have to be unflinchingly honest in turn. Her heart felt torn in half; whatever he might suspect, she feared to acknowledge openly what she really was.

Her face was blistering from the fire. She turned, and his arm came very naturally around her shoulder, his palm still cupping her nape. “I will find out,” she said quietly, “if what he said could be true. It will likely be impossible to be absolutely sure.”

“It shouldn't be impossible to find out if Selwyn had a wife and child who came up missing years ago. It shouldn't be hard to discover if he has a new wife and children now.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “It should even be possible to learn who Selwyn's secretary was back then.”

“That won't be proof,” she murmured against his chest.

“It will be damning coincidence.”

“I can't act on coincidence.”

“I certainly don't expect you to,” he shot back, his brows flattening at her sharp tone. “It's Stafford who does. Why does he want you to kill Dixon, Angelique? What did he say to persuade you to it?”

She held herself very still but couldn't stop the tremble that ran through her. “Nothing. He said nothing.” Nate stared at her, uncomprehending. “He never does,” she went on, the words like ashes in her mouth. “He simply tells me to do it, and I do.”

For a long moment they stood facing each other, one rigid with anxiety, the other motionless with surprise. “You're not just his spy,” Nate whispered. His green eyes were as dark as the sea. “You're his assassin.”

Somehow that word, so harsh and blunt, replenished Angelique's courage, at least momentarily. She lifted her chin. “Yes.”

Slowly he nodded. His arms fell away from her. “Ah. Of course. Now I see.”

She clenched her teeth and waited. This was what she had expected from anyone who discovered the truth about her: shock and horror, disgust and fear. She told herself she could endure it. It would be good for her, actually, to see how he reacted to her true self. It would make it easier to forget him when he left, and not spend the rest of her life regretting what had never been possible in the first place.

Suddenly Nate turned on his heel and paced away, raking one hand through his hair. “How long?” he demanded, his words clipped and angry.

“Almost ten years.” She said it defiantly.

Nate blinked. “Ten years? Christ, you must have been a child! How in the name of God did you fall in with him then?”

“I was eighteen, hardly a child.”

“Hardly a seasoned killer,” he retorted. “Why?”

“I didn't start with him as a killer,” she said, fighting to keep her tone even. “First I was merely to spy and report back. Then to follow people, from time to time. Then…” She sighed. “It just…crept in.”

“Ten years,” he repeated, sounding dazed still. “How does an eighteen-year-old young lady get involved with the likes of him?”

She laughed bitterly. “Lady? I am not a lady. One needs money to be a lady, and family, and a name. I was a dressmaker's assistant, raised by my mother's maid who was too afraid to use my real name for fear French partisans might come after us, even years after they killed my parents. The Terror, Monsieur, had a strong effect on Mellie.”

Some of the anger and shock faded from him. “Have you no family at all?”

Angelique shrugged. “Only distant,” she said.
“My mother's cousin married an Englishman, and she gave us money for a few years, very quietly. I believe she still had family in France and did not wish to endanger any of them by her actions. Then she died, and her husband had no desire to continue paying. We had some hard years, Melanie and I. I had to work as soon as I could, and the dressmaker took me young because I spoke French and Russian.”

“Where did you learn Russian?” he exclaimed, looking startled again. “And why?”

“There was a servant boy who lived near us, in the home of a Russian émigré.” She smiled, remembering dragging her feet through chores until she saw Kostya's pale, narrow face, pinched with strain from the loads of wood he had to carry up and down the stairs to heat the house. Despite that, he was always ready to laugh. “He was my friend. I was good with languages. Kostya taught me his language, and I taught him mine. Our English we learned together.” She shrugged, the smile fading. “By then, Russia was a French ally, and the English were nervous the two would turn on them. I was recruited to spy on several Russian ladies, wives of diplomats, who patronized the dressmaker shop where I worked. It was nothing much in the beginning, just listening while I fitted them and reporting what they talked of. Then…” She spread her hands. “It just grew. I did more and more.” Nate said nothing, just looked at her with dark, somber eyes. “I needed money, if you must know,” she added sharply. “Mellie had met Mr. Carswell by then and wished to marry him, but she would not do so as long as I lived with her. Mellie gave up everything for me—for my mother—
and I would not keep her from her own happiness.”

“No,” he murmured. “Of course not.”

“The British paid me well, and they kept revolution and war away from England. Not that England was untouched, but there were no armies marching in the streets and in the fields. After Napoleon was no longer a threat, there were others, within London itself, malcontents who wanted to overthrow the government and start anew. Faugh!” She swept out one hand. “They had forgotten how easily that could become a bloodbath. My parents and thousands of others died because malcontents ran unchecked over a country, killing everyone in their path who opposed them. Even killing a king was not enough for them. I could not stop that, but I could keep it from happening again.”

“You stopped a revolution from a dressmaker's shop,” he repeated. “With the gossip of ladies.”

She breathed deeply, hardening herself against what was to come. “No. By then I worked only for Stafford. He is the spymaster, you see; his people are everywhere. He and his master Sidmouth trust no one, and they make certain nothing is left to chance. If they deem someone a danger, that person will be sure to suffer some terrible, deadly accident. I am good at causing accidents.”

“How is a cut throat an accident?”

She shrugged again. “Footpads. Thieves. Leave a body in the right place, and people will ascribe all manner of sins and perversions to him. They will think he reaped his proper reward. London is not a kind and gentle city.”

He gave her a keen glance. “Well, neither is New York, to be honest.” His shock seemed to be wear
ing off. “But why would you prefer a knife, when a pistol would be so much more to your advantage?”

“It makes too much noise. I have killed a man in a hackney carriage and removed his body without the driver ever suspecting.”

“Why?” Nate's eyes glittered. “What did he do?”

“Conspired to assassinate Lord Bathurst, who directed the governor of St. Helena,” she said shortly. “He was a Frenchman still loyal to Napoleon and felt Bathurst was responsible for his emperor's ill treatment.”

Again he looked thunderstruck. “And you just reached out and slashed him?” he demanded incredulously. “No; that would not kill him. It must be a hard, deep cut to kill before he could fight back.”

“No,” she said, a little surprised he knew that. “I let him open my bodice, and while he was feeling my breasts I put my knife into his throat.” She touched the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse beat a tocsin. “Place the tip of the knife here and drive forward. It pierces the throat fatally, and requires little strength.”

The silence was deafening. Angelique waited calmly, hiding behind a placid face. He looked as shocked as if she'd kicked him in the groin, disemboweled him, betrayed him, and abandoned him. Her stomach roiled and twisted until she tasted bile in the back of her throat. This was why she had tried to avoid becoming entangled with him; this was why she had tried to push him away. She had known this was inevitable, but oh God, how it
hurt
.

“Good Lord,” said Nate quietly, his face pale. “At least the fellow died happy.”

It was so incongruous, so unexpected, her mouth dropped open.

“And then you probably just dragged him out of the carriage by holding his arms around your neck,” he went on, as if thinking it through. “On a dark night, in an unlit street, the driver would see a man embracing a pretty girl and never notice the blood.”

She swallowed. “He had a long cloak,” she whispered. “That, and a generous douse of gin, concealed a great deal.”

He crossed the room, lifting her chin until she looked at him. “He was the first, wasn't he?” She gave a jerky nod. “And a Frenchman. Ah, damn. My deadly darling.” He pulled her into his arms, resting his cheek against her temple. Angelique clutched at him, unnerved by how much she wanted his comfort. Her hands shook with remembered terror of that first kill; she had drunk almost as much gin as she splashed on her victim, to keep her nerve propped up. He'd been French and handsome, a slim, clever fellow who wanted to kill an earl and rescue Bonaparte to lead a vengeful sack of London. She'd only agreed to kill him after she became convinced he might succeed, terrorizing the city and leading to hundreds, even thousands, of needless deaths. He'd been so easily persuaded she wanted the same revenge on the English, the same anarchy and upheaval, because she was a Frenchwoman, in blood although not in spirit. After she had shoved his body into the river, she'd thrown up all that gin and not eaten again for two days.

“So,” Nate mused, “Stafford chose you because he wants Dixon dead—with presumably no trace
left of him. I always wondered…But that means he lied to me as well. How did he plan to trundle me out of England without Jacob Dixon, since I was perfectly explicit that my orders were to bring him home for trial?”

Angelique could hear the thump of his heart beneath her cheek. His arms were still around her, one hand looping a stray lock of her hair between his fingers. To answer his question would require her to sever the last connection to Stafford. Nate had discovered her true assignment piecemeal so far, and only by guesswork or when she had no choice but to reveal it. Stafford could forgive all that, as long as she succeeded in the end, but not if she completely broke his confidence and told Nate everything he had charged her with. She had long since decided to quit Stafford's service, but not like this; she had expected to collect her last fee, tell him of her decision, then quietly pack up her things and leave town. Move to a quiet place in the country—near Mellie, hopefully, but anywhere far from this life.

But it seemed too late for that now. Her instincts had been right, that there was something very wrong about this assignment, and her allegiance had been subtly shifting ever since that first day, when Nate flirted and teased and challenged all her presumptions about him. Whatever she had done or said, he stayed right beside her, undaunted. Now he was still holding her after what he had seen upstairs and even after what she had told him, and she realized her lot had already been cast, for better or for worse.

With Nate.

“I was to pack you off on your ship,” she said.
“One way or another. He didn't care whether you got your money or not, although he was perfectly willing that you should try. It would make you more likely to go without a fuss, you see. You were only permitted any part in this because he could not locate Dixon without your help—and, I suspect, you would not help without being deeply involved.”