You Only Love Once (24 page)

J
acob Dixon didn't take it well that they would be waiting to see if his story stood up to verification. “I told you the truth!” he shrilled, throwing out his hands.

“Perhaps,” Nate told him. “Perhaps not. You've got an unfortunate history with truth.”

“What are you going to do until you get this proof?” He rattled the chains at his wrists in agitation. “Am I supposed to sit here like an animal?”

“Madame still has her knife, if you prefer a more immediate judgment.”

Dixon recoiled, eyes widening. “You swore to me you wouldn't allow her—”

Nate smiled grimly. “You're mistaken if you think she obeys my orders.”

A sly look came over the man's face. “Oh, I think she listens to you most attentively. I am not a blind man, you know.”

“No, but you're not the most clever man, either. Keep your mouth closed, lest you wear out her patience and mine.” Nate took out some papers and held them out to his prisoner. “For now, sign these.”

Dixon's eyes flitted over the papers, then away. “Oh, this is too much…You haven't given me any sort of security, yet you want to collect all my worldly goods and dupe my only friend into thinking I'm not in any danger…”

“I'll get your baggage whether you sign or not, and Davis Hurst is no one's friend,” Nate replied. “You have two choices here: You can preserve the illusion that you're not about to have your throat cut, which one might think would help keep your spirits up, and curry my good favor at the same time by making it easier for me to recover the United States' money. Or you can refuse, and be treated as any un-cooperative thief might be.”

Dixon's mouth flattened, and he glared at Nate with bitter hatred, but he put out his hand for the pen and silently signed the notes Nate had written, one to the manager at the Pulteney and the other to Hurst.

“Excellent choice.” Nate folded the notes into his pocket and collected the ink and pen. The room was utterly bare, except for a thin pallet and blanket. He checked the chains that kept Dixon manacled to the wall, then let himself out of the room and locked the door behind him.

Ian Wallace was in the hall below, obviously just arrived. Dressed like a gentleman today, he was handing his coat and hat to Lisette as Nate came down the stairs. The big Scot glanced up and gave him that curious half smile he always seemed to wear. Nate wondered what that look meant, but Angelique came out of the drawing room then.

“Well?” she demanded of their visitor.

Wallace grimaced. “'Tis wet and rainy out, a raw
London day. I'm chilled right through to my bones.”

“I thought a Scotsman wasn't bothered by anything less than a hurricane,” she retorted. “That is not what I meant.”

“Can you not even offer your guest a hot cup of tea?” Wallace said instead, giving her a broad smile. “With perhaps a wee bit of whiskey?”

Nate knew what Wallace was doing. He went down into the hall and put on his coat. “I'm going out,” he told Angelique. He cast an oblique look at Wallace, still grinning merrily and not saying a single word about why he had actually come. “Good luck.”

“Fetch some tea, without whiskey,” she told Lisette, who nodded and bustled off through the hall. “Ian, I will join you in a moment in the drawing room.”

“You slay me, lass,” Wallace said as he headed toward the drawing room. “Just a drop…”

Angelique followed Nate across the hall to the door. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“To get Dixon's things. I'll be back soon.” He picked up an umbrella standing by the door. “I may go have a word with Prince as well.”

She reached up and did the top buttons on his coat, smoothing the lapels in a very wifely manner. Nate saw the signs of strain around her eyes and felt like hurting someone, just to ease his own frustrations and his worry for her. “Be careful,” she said.

He smiled. “I shan't do anything dangerous at all. I might say the same to you, with that cagey fox in there waiting for you.”

“Ian is no danger,” she said reprovingly. “Not to me.”

“He'd probably like to take my scalp,” Nate agreed. “Which is why I am leaving the field to you, my dear.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her, lightly, then deeply, as if he feared wasting a single kiss. Perhaps he did; there were a legion of problems facing them, and he didn't see a safe path through the thorny tangle. And if any of those thorns caught them…He didn't want to waste a single kiss.

She still wore a slightly dreamy smile when he left, shutting the door firmly behind him to keep the cold and rain out. Nate turned up his coat collar and raised the umbrella, turning his mind back to the problems at hand and away from the feel of her mouth against his. Hopefully Wallace would have something useful to say, even if he didn't want to say it in front of Nate, but Nate was glad to leave the house anyway. He needed to think, to stretch his legs as well as his mind, and he should check in with Prince as well as get Jacob Dixon's baggage. Perhaps there would be something in Dixon's belongings that would ease their current quandary, although Nate couldn't think of what that might be. The most he hoped for now was a large stash of jewels hidden in the bottom of Dixon's trunk. But sadly, recovering the stolen funds had become the least of his worries.

The manager of the Pulteney was very accommodating. Nate used his most polite smile and best English on the man, along with full payment for Dixon's bill, and in no time at all he was being ushered up to Jacob Dixon's—or Mr. Chartley's, as he was known at the hotel—rooms, allegedly to pack everything and send it on to Mr. Chartley at
his new rented home, as directed by the note Dixon had signed. Nate did indeed pack everything, after a thorough search. Aside from a plump purse, there was no sign of the jewels. He found only one letter from Davis Hurst—the others presumably had been burned, to judge from a postscript reminding Dixon to dispose of their correspondence. Nate smiled dourly at that hypocrisy, remembering the stack of letters from Dixon in Hurst's locked cabinet. He put that letter in his pocket, and carried a small valise with diaries and ledgers with him, but dumped everything else into Dixon's trunk. He hailed a carriage and had the porter load the trunk into it, then drove down to the docks.

Prince had just returned to the
Water Asp
, a small wooden box under one arm and a newspaper held over his head against the rain. He grinned when he saw Nate unloading the hackney. “Ah, the pretty lady has finally tired of you, I see. I am not to be the only one sleeping on the ship.”

“I have his things,” said Nate grimly, setting the valise atop the trunk. “And a delicate question.”

Prince raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. He helped Nate carry Dixon's belongings on board, then sent a boy for some ale. “What is your trouble?”

Nate shrugged off his wet coat and dropped into the chair at the table where Prince's equipment was spread once more. “Asking for Stafford's help may have been a mistake.”

“The president told you to go through the proper channels,” Prince pointed out. “What else could you do? Not that I am surprised to hear this, you understand.”

“I know,” Nate said. “But Monroe didn't know what sort of man we'd be dealing with.” He sighed. “Nor what sort of woman.”

Prince's teeth gleamed in his dark face. “I knew it! Our pretty mademoiselle is behind it after all.”

“Our pretty mademoiselle is a dangerous woman,” Nate said. “But even she's in danger because of this—more so than we are, to be honest.”

Prince sat back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. He was still grinning, but his eyes were serious and alert. “Are you going to explain yourself or not?”

Instead of answering, Nate reached out and fiddled with some of Prince's experiments. There were vials of colored liquids, leather pouches tied with hemp cords, tall glass bottles of powders and crystals, and a mortar and pestle. He had never understood Prince's fascination with brewing odd potions and searching out exotic plants and substances, but today he was deeply appreciative and grateful for his friend's expertise. He picked up one glass jar with what looked like harmless white flowers sealed inside, and Prince reached out to take it from him. “That is poisonous,” he said with a sharp look.

“I thought as much,” said Nate. “In fact, that's why I'm here. Tell me about all your poisons.”

 

Angelique didn't wait for Lisette to bring Ian's tea, with or without whiskey. “What did you learn?” she asked as soon as she had closed the drawing room door.

Ian grimaced. He was standing in front of the fireplace, warming his backside. “Nothing good. I asked right out, and got a freezing look for my trouble. All
he would say to me was that you knew what needed doing, and I should remind you to get to it. He was quite keen to know if you were having troubles, and queried me for some time about how you were getting on.” Ian shrugged. “I brushed him off and said I knew nothing, just that you hadn't found your man yet. Not even when I said I'd be glad to help, if only someone would tell me what we're doing, did he pry open his lips.”

Angelique sighed and sank onto the sofa. “I did not expect otherwise, but it does not help. Thank you, Ian.”

“Now Phipps…Phipps was a different story,” he went on in the same vein, as if she hadn't spoken. “Phipps is no great admirer of yours, and when I let slip you were having difficulty in completing your mission…Well, the man's not cut out to be other than a clerk, and God help Stafford if anyone else realizes that. Phipps also tried to pry out of me what you had already done and what the trouble appeared to be, but I'd sooner swive an Irish whore with the pox than tell him anything. But while he was grumbling about sending a woman to do an important job—”

“Over ale, I assume,” she muttered.

“It lubricates the throat,” Ian replied equably. “And the tongue. Especially the tongue. Phipps can drink a lot more than one might think, to look at him.”

“What did he say?”

“Ah, right. It's not just Staff who's anxiously awaiting the conclusion of this sorry business. Phipps indicated the old fox is being prodded and pricked to get this done, and by people other than Sidmouth—
hence my invitation to the scene.” Ian gave a mocking bow. “How flattering it is that they send me in to succeed where you cannot, but without telling me a bloody thing about what's supposed to be done.”

Angelique buried her face in her hands. She had feared as much; it must be Selwyn urging Stafford on. Or someone else, if Selwyn was innocent of Dixon's charges—but who could that be? If only she knew. If only she could divine where Stafford himself stood. Once again she hoped Harry would discover something.

The sofa creaked as Ian came to sit beside her. “Now that I've played my part as a wide-eyed messenger boy, will you tell me what the problem is?”

For a long moment she said nothing, then gave in. She trusted Ian as much as she trusted Harry—Ian was still in the game, after all. And at this point, she needed his help too badly not to trust him. “I suspect I have been sent to do something terrible,” she said quietly. “Nate came to England to find a man named Jacob Dixon. His president instructed him to apply to the appropriate channels for help, and he did so, ending up in Stafford's office. But after assuring Nate he would give all assistance possible, Stafford told me to help find the man, then to kill him—without Nate or anyone else discovering it, preferably.”

“Why?” Ian was frowning.

She lifted her hands. “I do not know. He would not tell me, even when I asked. But I agreed. Only after we apprehended Dixon—”

“You've already got him?” Ian exclaimed. “Ah…Now I see…”

“What?” For a moment her heart surged in panic,
and her hand made an involuntary movement toward her knife. “What do you see?”

“That's why you seem so flustered. I'm not used to seeing that, you know. The calm, cold Angelique is never without a plan.” He grinned again, but only for a moment. “So you've got him and don't know what to do with him.”

“No. Can you guess why?”

“I'd wager it has something to do with the American.”

“In a way,” she said slowly, “but not as you think. Nate did not change my mind, even though I thought it was very wrong of Stafford to treat him so ill; he allowed Nate to believe I was here to help him in every way, not to use him. It was Dixon himself who managed to make me doubt.”

Ian let his astonishment show. “How?”

She knew it was completely unlike her, to be swayed by the arguments of the person she was supposed to pursue. Perhaps she had misspoken; if not for Nate, and her sense of the injustice Stafford did him, she never would have hesitated long enough to hear Dixon's story. “He told a story,” she said. “I am still trying to discover if it might be true, but, if so, it calls into question everything about Stafford and what he wishes me to do.”

“And if this man told you a lie?” Ian asked skeptically. “Then what?”

“Then…” If Dixon lied, then what was she to do? Kill him after all, for the trouble he'd caused her? Or let Nate take him back to New York for trial in defiance of Stafford's orders, because killing him made even less sense? Harry had better find something definite about Selwyn, because she didn't know
what she would do if Dixon's story proved to be false, or demonstrably impossible. “I don't know. I will deal with that if I must.”

“How will you know? Seems to me you've already started believing him, else you'd not have delayed so long, nor sent me out to quiz Stafford.”

“I am trying to confirm certain details of Dixon's tale.” She hesitated. “I have asked Harry, although he does not know why I want to know.”