You Only Love Once (23 page)

“No,” he said very quietly. “I would not.” He hadn't moved a muscle except to breathe. “And you agreed with his plan.”

“I did not want to.”

“I remember,” he admitted. “But you did.”

She made herself ease free of his embrace and lifted one shoulder. “It was not so different from what he had asked me to do before.” The faint scorn in her voice was for herself, but Nate's face darkened at it. “Why should I not? You even followed me, you were so sure I would agree.”

“I followed you,” he repeated. “Yes, I did. You were only one of several surprises. That was the first day I met Stafford; not only was he anxious to assist in my quest, he had already sent for you. I couldn't help but wonder at that, and then you made no secret of your disinclination to agree. Why would he persist in getting this particular woman, I asked myself—and there was no answer. I followed you because this
matters
to me. I am not just here because President Monroe sent me; I don't work for the government at all. Jacob Dixon ruined a good man, my godfather, the man who saved my father's life. If I hadn't been satisfied you were equal to the task, I would have gone back to John Stafford and told him in no uncertain terms to find someone else, or I would do it all myself.”

“He wanted me because I am good at killing people,” she said flatly. “It is my main talent.”

Nate's face grew ominous and dark. “If we're confessing all our sins, then I should admit to my own.”

“I don't want to know,” she said quickly. “It will serve nothing.”

For a long moment he just stared at her, his brows drawn in and his eyes as hard as glass. “You don't want to know,” he repeated, and managed to make it sound like an accusation.

“You don't have to tell me,” she tried to explain. “I did not admit my sins in order to extract a confession in kind. What can you have done, at home in your shipping office and paying calls on a president, that could compare to what I have done?”

An odd, funny smile crossed his face. “Angelique, I'm not a shipping merchant. I grew up working in my father's business because he needed help; I sailed with him as a cabin lad, and as he acquired more ships, we all worked in the offices, not just me and my brother but my mother and even my sister at times. He expects me to take it over eventually, and I will, eventually. I went west as soon as I was grown, though. I've spent more time on the frontier in the last ten years than in any city.”

“Frontier?” she repeated blankly, trying to remember what she'd heard of America. “With the savages?”

He made a scoffing sound in his throat. “Some of them are savages. But no more so than many people in Washington or Boston.”

“You are at ease in London. You speak proper English.”

“My mother is from Hertfordshire, near Baldock. And I was raised in a city.” He grinned. “Besides, there's quite as much gossip and social ambition in Boston as there is in London. It just doesn't aim as high.”

That gave her pause. The son of an English-woman and a seafaring merchant, who lived with the savages. She never would have guessed. “Nevertheless,” she began, then remembered stories in the newspapers about the natives of America: scalpings, torture, raiding. A place where people used scalping knives. She looked at Nate with new eyes, and for a moment he looked utterly alien to her. Perhaps this explained some of his odd habits, and the way he had caught Ian completely by surprise. Then she blinked, and the man she loved was back. He was the same. And she realized they had neither of them fully shown their true selves before tonight. Perhaps he had been as apprehensive as she had been about revealing it. And yet they were both still standing here. A small kernel of hope glowed in her heart.

“Nevertheless,” she repeated, her voice stronger, “you do not want to tangle with Stafford. He does not know the meaning of fighting honorably.”

“As I see it, he is tangling with me,” Nate replied, and this time there was steel in his tone. “The man lied to me. He received my honest and frank introduction with a viper's smile, and never intended to fulfill the promises he implicitly made to help me achieve my ends. That, my darling, renders my conscience completely at peace in thwarting him. I came to right a great wrong, and he is not going to stop me.”

She laughed a little sadly. “No? What will you do, then?”

“I'm thinking,” he said. “Give me some time. But first we need more accurate intelligence: Is Dixon telling the truth about Selwyn? And if so, does Stafford know it as well?”

“Does it even matter?” Angelique lowered herself into a chair, feeling overwhelmed. “If he knew, he sent me out to kill a man to hide Selwyn's crimes. If he didn't, then he sent me to kill a man without even knowing the reason why he did so.”

“It matters a great deal.” Nate had begun pacing again, rubbing his hands together and flexing his fingers. It was like watching a musician limber his fingers before taking up his instrument. “If Stafford knew, then he has deliberately used his power—and the trust of his government—to exact a personal vengeance. That tends to cause scandal when it becomes known. If he didn't know, he will have no choice but to turn on Selwyn, or else he will be exposed as unfit and corrupt. If he can be misled by one fire-breathing aristocrat seeking personal ends, he might be misled by others, with less personal ends. He will be a danger to the Crown itself, and they won't like that.”

Slowly she nodded. That all made sense. Nate stopped pacing and went down on one knee before her. “Can you find out which it is?” he asked, meeting her gaze steadily. “Is there any way we can discover without confronting him directly?”

“I asked Ian to see if he could discover anything,” she said. “He is not the most subtle, but that may work to our advantage. Stafford will think nothing of it if Ian just asks.”

“I suppose that will have to do.” Nate sighed. “Now that we have Dixon, time runs fast and short. I had thought to bundle him on the ship and leave with the next tide. But now…” He shook his head. “We can keep it secret that we've got him for a short while. I'll go back to the Pulteney with a note from him, indicating that he's moving to a different hotel and I'm to fetch his things. We can put Hurst off the same way if he kicks up a fuss looking for Dixon.”

Angelique studied him. His eyes were so clear and green, as deep as the ocean. None of the shock and anger of earlier remained. He had heard her confession, absorbed it, and now was focused on the more pressing task they must tackle—together. For a moment she could hardly breathe, from the force of hope and relief. “Will Dixon cooperate with that?” she said, trying to keep up with him even though she wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around him once more, for just a moment, and hold him to her in gratitude and joy that he was still there, working to solve the problem with her. It wasn't a promise, but it was better than disgust and rejection.

“I don't think his other choices are very appealing. He's scared witless of you, for some reason.” She gave an involuntary smile, and Nate grinned. “But I am not,” he added in a soft whisper. “Not at all.” He took her hand and bent his head, seemingly absorbed in tracing every contour of her fingers with his thumb. “You must know I care for you.”

Her fingers trembled in his grasp. “I am glad,” she murmured. It was inadequate to what she really felt, but what more could she say? It was not a declaration of love or devotion. She wasn't even sure how
she would react to one of those, if he were to make it. “I care for you as well.”

She caught just a corner of his smile at that. He now held her hands in both of his, gently and reverently. It made her feel peaceful and contented. But she was unprepared for the determination blazing in his eyes when he finally raised his head and looked at her. “Do you want to continue working with Stafford after this?” he asked her.

She was shaking her head before he even finished speaking. “No. I knew before we began that this would be my last assignment.” Nate said nothing. His unflinching gaze loosened her tongue. “He has lied to me and to other agents of his, men I respected and trusted. Because of him, two of them were almost killed. It makes me sick to think of the part I played in those circumstances, unwitting but direct. I came to him thinking I was making a noble sacrifice, for peace and justice.” She sniffed as some of her ire at Stafford returned. “I am sure some of that was gained, but at what cost? I have slept easily because it was the wicked and amoral we targeted; now I am not sure, and I will not risk a mistake.”

“That's why you didn't just kill Dixon.”

“No,” she said with a grimace. “It is a great and terrible price to pay, to be killed. Always I have tried to make certain there was no hope of dissuading a man from his wicked intent. Always I have tried to be sure he deserved it. This is the first time I have doubted, but it is not why I am done with Stafford.” She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I am tired of this,” she confessed. “My life has not been my own. I want to be free to do what I please, without the weight of his direction on my shoulders.
I am tired of pretending to be what I am not. I am done lying.”

He gave a very small nod. “You are,” he said quietly, a slight smile on his lips. “Let us finish this business, and then…” He hesitated. “You could come to Boston with us.”

“To America?” she said in surprise, even as the idea took root and flourished. America, an ocean away from Stafford and her old life…and near Nate. “With you?”

He gave her that charming, crooked smile she loved so dearly. “That was my hope, but if you'd rather go with Prince…” She laughed out loud at that, and he shrugged, still grinning. “I wasn't sure you'd prefer me to him but thought I should ask all the same.” He sobered. “Yes, with me.”

“To see the savages?” For some reason she found the idea fascinating.

He laughed. “If you like, my dear, although you won't find them as savage as you might think.”

“The unexpected can be very savage,” she said, although his humor had lifted her own. “I shall cling to your side at all times in fear.”

“I can't see you cowering in fear of anything, but I'm very happy to have you cling to me.” He winked, and she laughed again. “So. We must try to find out Stafford's true motive, keep Dixon quiet and his disappearance a secret, and make plans to leave England as soon as possible.”

Angelique's amusement fled. They were going to defy Stafford, in one way or another. He had let his other agents walk away, but for his own reasons. Harry Sinclair had married an earl's daughter, elevating himself above Stafford's reach. Alec Bran
don had proved himself innocent of the accusations of treason that had been attached to his name since Waterloo, and no longer needed Stafford's protection. But she…She was nobody. She had no relatives, no family, no circle of powerful friends to shield her from anything Stafford might do to her. She also carried more of his secrets than either Harry or Alec had, and she very much doubted he would just bid her a polite farewell if she said she was leaving, especially if she left without finishing Dixon. That would make him worry about her, what she intended to do and how discreet she might be. John Stafford didn't like loose ends, as she knew all too well. After all, she was the one who often tied them off for him.

Nate noticed her sudden tension. “What?” he asked, no longer teasing and smiling. “What's wrong?”

“Stafford,” she said. “He will not let me walk away so easily if I do not complete this assignment. I am a danger to his secrets.”

“Right,” said Nate with that closed, focused look she had learned meant he was thinking hard.

“We could persuade him Dixon is dead,” she said. “Then he will not be so upset to see me go.”

“Right,” said Nate again. “I don't suppose he'll be satisfied if you simply tell him it's done.”

“He might,” she said slowly. “If you came along and made a great scene that I had done it against your wishes.”

“He'd discover the truth if the New York newspapers cover the trial, which they're sure to do.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “He does not read the foreign papers, but Phipps might.”

“The New York papers are no different than London ones,” Nate said. “They love a scandal, and they've been full of the story since the theft was discovered. But you'd be across the ocean by then.”

“Selwyn will fear what Dixon might say at his trial, and Stafford will know I lied to him.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Is America out of their reach? I don't know.”

Nate got to his feet and laid his hands on her shoulders until she looked up at him. “Let that question wait a while. First we need to know if Dixon is spinning tales. If he's lying about Selwyn, it alters the situation.”
Not enough
, thought Angelique with a pang. “How shall we put his claims to the test?”

She dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes, then folded it in one hand. “I know only one person who moves in the same society as Selwyn, and who won't quibble about telling me what he knows. I shall have to ask Harry.”

N
ate was not at all certain he liked having to ask Harry Sinclair for help. For one thing, the man turned out to live in a big, white stone house in the finer section of town; the streets were wide and well swept, bright with gaslight, and quiet. It was the home of a man with money, and even though Angelique said it was all from his wife's family, Nate was well aware that money had a powerful impact on a person's point of view. This Sinclair might have been as common as Nate was, at one point, but now he had clearly moved up in the world, with aims to move even higher.

“You go first,” Angelique murmured after she stepped down from the hackney behind him. She had dressed as a man for this visit. With her hair hidden under a blond wig and her chest bound under a padded coat, she somehow managed to look enough like a young man that Nate had blinked in astonishment at first. Her eyes would never be mistaken for a man's and her mouth was too lush, but hopefully it was too dark for anyone to see either of them that well. Nate didn't know what would
happen if word somehow got back to Stafford what they were up to.

The hackney rattled away, leaving them alone on the wide pavement in front of the house. The windows were lit, but there was no noise of a party within. He hoped that meant Mr. Sinclair was at home; the more times they had to call, the greater the chance Stafford would discover it. With more than a little foreboding, he strode up the steps and rapped the knocker of the door, Angelique a subservient step behind him.

“Edwin Greenwood to see Mr. Sinclair,” he told the footman who let them in.

The servant took the card Nate gave him and went to see if Mr. Sinclair would see them. In grim silence they waited, until the butler came and showed them into a drawing room. It was a handsome room, very fashionably furnished, but Nate could barely see it, and prowled restlessly about the room. It made his skin itch to approach this fellow, no matter what Angelique said about him. For her part, she perched mutely on the edge of a sofa, a sure sign that she was as tense as he was. Too late Nate thought of more arguments against coming here; what if Sinclair suspected they had come from Stafford and wouldn't see them at all? What if he missed whatever message Angelique had sent with the spurious card, and turned them away? What if he was acquainted with Selwyn—friendly, even—and warned the man people were making inquiries?

The door clicked behind him. Angelique sprang to her feet. Nate turned to see a tall, well-dressed man about his own age with dark hair and sharp hazel eyes in a lean face. For a moment they all
stood in silence, Mr. Sinclair looking from Angelique to Nate and back again. Nate realized the muscles of his back had tightened in anticipation of an attack—of what sort he couldn't imagine—and consciously tried to breathe normally. Angelique had said this man would understand…

“I was once Edwin Greenwood,” said Sinclair. He had the calling card in his hand, and now held it at arm's length, studying the name printed on it. “For only a day or so; it took me a moment to remember, but I see you kept the cards. How have you been, Angelique?”

A smile—of relief as well as pleasure—broke across her face as he turned to her. “Well, Harry,” she said. “And you?”

One corner of his mouth crooked upward, bringing a sudden flash of humor and easiness to his expression. “Blissful. Please, won't you be seated?” He extended one hand.

Warily Nate came to sit beside Angelique on the small sofa. Mr. Sinclair took a chair opposite them, drawing it close. “I need your help, Harry,” said Angelique quietly.

Sinclair's eyes flickered toward Nate. “You, Angelique, or your companion?”

“Both of us. This is…Nathaniel.” Nate said nothing, just returned Sinclair's nod. “I cannot tell you more, except that you can trust him as you do me.”

From the inscrutable expression on Sinclair's face, Nate wondered how much trust that involved. Angelique had told him very little about this man, and it was stretching his nerves as tight as a bowstring to sit here and depend on him. She didn't seem
bothered by it, although she did add, “You mustn't tell anyone we were here, Harry.”

“Ah,” said their host. “That sort of help. What is the matter?” Nate did like that; at least he got right to the point.

“I need information,” she said. “
We
need information—with no questions asked. I will understand if you say no, but I swear to you it is urgent.”

“It's that important?” Again Sinclair's eyes flicked to Nate, who still hadn't said a word. Angelique could feel the tension between the two of them. She had worked with Harry only a few times, but he was as clever as the devil and even more perceptive. She was fairly sure he would take her word for it that Nate could be trusted, but it was not absolute certainty; once Harry had trusted her every word, but he had moved on with his life. He was married to an earl's daughter now, and planning to stand for Parliament. She didn't want to cause trouble for him by dragging out a part of his life he doubtless wished to leave behind, but she knew of no one else able to find out what she needed to know as quickly as Harry could.

“Vital,” she replied to his question. To her relief, if seemed to be enough for Harry.

“All right,” he said. He shot another unreadable glance at Nate before turning back to her. “What do you need to know?”

“Gossip,” she told him. “Old gossip. You are the only one I know who might be able to discover it without drawing too much attention to the search.”

“I cannot promise without knowing more. My entry to the
ton
is quite recent, as you know; it's very
likely I've never heard of the people or events in question.”

“Selwyn,” Angelique whispered. “Do you know the Earl Selwyn?”

Harry's expression grew alert. “We've met. Why?”

“Is he married?”

“I think so. I seem to recall hearing about Lady Selwyn in some context, but I could be mistaken.”

Beside her, Nate didn't make a sound. She dared a quick look at him; he was staring fixedly at the floor, his mouth set. “Does he have any children?” she asked, forging on with what they needed to know.

“I don't know.” Harry's gaze had locked on Nate now, thoughtful and sharp.

“I need to know who his wife is, and when he wed her. If he had another wife, perhaps years ago, and what happened to her.”

“Is this for Stafford?” Harry asked. By unspoken agreement, both had lowered their voices to almost inaudible levels. “I don't work for him anymore, and if you were to ask my advice—which I know you have not—you should consider resigning as well.”

That wiped the expression right off Angelique's face, even though she had been thinking much the same thing. “Why do you say that?”

Harry sighed. “My grandfather, Lord Camden, is in the Home Office. He works with Sidmouth from time to time. Initially he was very much in favor of this little enterprise of Stafford's; hell, he gave them my name when they were recruiting. But I've heard things, Angelique. However they may have begun, they've grown reckless. Dangerous. Even Camden doesn't trust them anymore, and he's a ruthless old bugger. Whatever Stafford's asked you to do, be
very, very careful how you proceed, especially with regard to someone like Selwyn, who is not only one of them, but
like
them.”

She let out her breath slowly. “I am trying to be,” she murmured. “That is why I came to you—and why you mustn't tell anyone I did.”

“You know I never would.” He glanced at Nate again. “I suppose I don't want to know who you really are.”

Nate looked up, his eyes glittering. “Probably not,” he replied.

If Harry was surprised by the foreign accent, he didn't show it. “I'll do my best. How should I get the information to you?”

“St. Margaret's,” she said. “In Westminster.” Stafford had people scattered through half the pubs and taverns in London, and she didn't dare come to Harry's home again. “Two days from now, in the morning.”

Harry gave a curt nod, and Angelique rose. Nate was right beside her, as quiet as a ghost but clearly ready to leave. Angelique thanked her former fellow agent again, and they left.

She didn't say a word to Nate for some time. They walked instead of hailing a hackney, partly because there weren't many hackneys standing near Harry's home. It had taken her aback to see how lush his life was now, far better than when they had been Stafford's spies together, running in and out of rented houses, collecting information and changing disguises. Harry seemed the same as he ever was, but she felt a prickle of worry that he wouldn't be so eager to tell her all she wanted to know. What if he suspected why she wanted to
know about Selwyn and balked at answering her question? She didn't think Harry had been explicitly told she was Stafford's assassin, but he might suspect. Unfortunately there was no one else she could ask, and it would take too long to go out to Selwyn's estate to poke around, not to mention call too much attention to themselves. Not only could she not ask Nate to wait that long, every delay was a greater chance Stafford discovered she had turned on him. And that, she shuddered to think, could be fatal to them all.

“Will he help us?” Nate asked, breaking the silence between them.

“I believe so,” she said. “He is our best hope of discovering the truth quickly and easily, since he moves in the same circles as Selwyn.”

Nate nodded. He walked with his head down, his brow lowered in concentration. “Then we have to wait until the day after tomorrow. What shall we do with Dixon until then?”

She sighed. “What we have been doing, I suppose. Perhaps Ian will have discovered something.”

He grunted. They lapsed back into silence again, walking until finally Nate hailed a hackney. It was late, and not all the streets were as well lit and safe as the one Harry lived on. Not until they had climbed aboard and were rumbling back toward the house did Nate speak again, slowly and deliberately, as if choosing each word with care. “If Sinclair does confirm, in some manner, Dixon's story, and Wallace provides any insight into Stafford's motivation that suggests the worst, what are you prepared to do?”

Angelique thought about it. Stafford had been utterly wrong to deceive Nate, who had dealt hon
estly with him from the beginning. She refused to kill Dixon, no matter what. The sense that he had ordered her to kill a man out of personal, petty vengeance, or for political gain, wove guilt and doubt into everything she had ever done for him. If what Dixon claimed turned out to be true, she didn't just want to quit Stafford's service; she wanted him stopped. “Anything,” she replied softly. “He has made me a killer, and he has yet to reap the consequences.”

“No, no!” Nate shook his head. “You're not killing anyone again, not him, not
for
him. That's not what I meant. What are
you
prepared for?”

The way he lingered on the word “you” made her look up in confusion. “What do you mean?”

He said nothing for a moment. “It's just an idea I had. But it would require a great sacrifice on your part, and perhaps that is unnecessary.”

She frowned. “Sacrifice of what?”

“Of…a great many things.” Nate shook his head. “Never mind. Perhaps it won't come to it.”

“What do you mean? Tell me,” she said softly.

In reply he put his arm around her and drew her close beside him. “You don't need my wild ideas when you've got enough to worry about.”

“Not all of your wild ideas alarm me.” She touched his cheek. “Some I rather like.”

He didn't smile. Instead he caught her hand and raised it to his lips. “This one isn't so pleasurable—not that I don't have many pleasurable ideas about you, of course.”

“I can tell it is serious, from the way it has made you so somber.”

He sighed. “You don't miss a trick, do you?”

“I prefer to think it is because I am coming to know you well,” she replied.

This time he chuckled. “That you are.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But I promise to tell you if circumstances warrant.”

“How?” she asked immediately. “What circumstances?”

“Ones I hope we never see,” he said firmly, and refused to say another word about it.