You Only Love Once (28 page)

Phipps's ears all but quivered. “Indeed. I…er…can't recall all the details of that assignment…”

Because he hadn't been told them, thought Ian. “Old Staff sent me out to check on her a week ago,” he said. “I think she and the American—not the swindler, the one she was meant to work with—weren't getting on all that well. No surprise there, he's an excitable, unreliable fellow, the sort who only cares for his own affairs.”

“Do tell,” murmured Phipps.

“Well, she must have got around it one way or another.” Ian paused. “I wonder you don't know all about it. They told me next to nothing, you know. But the old fox was quite eager to see that matter settled; perhaps we'll all reap a reward, eh?”

Phipps's mouth pinched. “I am hardly about to divulge what he tells me.”

Ian laughed. “Nor I! Guess we'll just have to stifle our curiosity, then.”

“Yes. Er…well, if she's completed a job, I shall be wanted,” Phipps murmured, almost to himself. “To take the notes and send any notifications and such. I had better be prepared.”

Ian shrugged. “Might as well go wait, aye?”

T
he Earl Selwyn was a tall man, dark in hair and skin. He must have some foreign blood in him, Angelique thought. She guessed he was about forty years of age, and had gone a little soft around the middle as men of his years tended to do. But there was nothing soft about his cold, arrogant expression as he turned and glared down his long, sharp nose at her when she opened the door, interrupting what sounded like a tense argument.

“Get out,” he said. Behind him, she saw John Stafford's eyes fasten on her.

Angelique closed the door behind her. “I wish to speak to you.”

“In a moment, Madame,” said Stafford, in a far more polite tone than Selwyn's simultaneous, “Go!”

There was a moment of silence. Angelique returned Selwyn's angry stare without flinching. “My lord,” said Stafford reluctantly, “this is Madame Martand, my top agent. I engaged her on the matter we spoke of.”

Selwyn's expression didn't alter, but a vein began
pulsing in his forehead. “Indeed,” he said in a frosty voice. “What do you want? Have you come to report success?”

“I have brought you some news.” She drew out a small, battered journal and held it out. “And a gift.”

Selwyn scowled. He barely glanced at the journal. “What the devil is that? Have you done your job or not, girl?”

“My lord,” said Stafford, giving the man a warning look. He came to take the journal from her. “What is your news?” he asked, laying the journal on his desk.

“I have done what you asked.” Selwyn inhaled and glanced at Stafford, who gave a tiny nod.

“Excellent work, my dear,” Stafford said. “If you would excuse us a moment—”

“But you must read the journal.” She raised one eyebrow. “It will tell quite a story, one I believe you will wish to hear now.”

Stafford paused. “Whose journal is it?”

“That of Jacob Dixon. I discovered it in his belongings while Mr. Avery was retrieving the stolen funds.”

Selwyn's pleased expression faltered. Stafford was looking at the journal. “Perhaps you should tell us.”

Angelique kept her eyes on Selwyn. “It begins many years ago, with a young husband and father who suddenly, unexpectedly, rose to an earldom.” It was very quiet in the office. Selwyn looked stunned. “Unfortunately, his young son suffered a mysterious affliction the doctors could not cure. How distressing for a man to think of his new title and estates descending into the hands of an idiot. If only
there were some way to remove the child from the succession…”

“Is this how you spend the government's money, Stafford?” interrupted Selwyn. He looked at Angelique with murder in his eyes.

“I assume you are telling this story for a reason,” said Stafford slowly. He didn't look at Selwyn, but his face had gone hard.

Angelique smiled coolly. “Of course. It was a shocking story. As this earl was searching for a way to secure his posterity, free of whatever taint had infected his first child, his secretary proposed a plan. It was insupportable that a title so old and illustrious should pass to this child, who was not normal. Naturally one could not stoop to interfering in God's plan, but perhaps a quiet solution to the problem could be found.” She paused. Selwyn's face was flushed and ominous. He still glared at her. Angelique felt in her bones then that Dixon had spoken the truth, that every word he said about Selwyn was accurate. This man wouldn't hesitate to do away with his own child, not to mention an indiscreet former employee. This man had forced his wife to flee into anonymous solitude to save her child, and Angelique could have killed him just for that. She stared back at him as she continued her story.

“The countess did not wish her child harmed, but she knew her husband shared no such tenderness and delicacy. The secretary proposed that the countess and her child could simply…disappear. After a short time, the earl could proclaim them dead, and no one would ever know the truth. The countess and her son would be well provided for by the earl, in secret bank accounts, and the earl would be free
to proceed with his life. Perhaps marry again, for a lord of his stature must be a very eligible match even for a duke's daughter. Perhaps sire other, normal, children. And if any trace of this secretary, who knew the earl's terrible secret, ever came to light, why, who would believe a secretary over an earl? Particularly if that secretary happened to be under suspicion of stealing a fortune from a foreign government as well. Why, it would be simple enough to warn certain people that this secretary posed a danger to the Crown. The Crown, of course, would zealously defend itself.”

Nobody spoke. Stafford reached out and flipped open the journal with one finger.

“What a bunch of rot.” Selwyn was almost choking on his own words; he might have been breathing fire. “But you said you had done what you were ordered to do, yes?”

Stafford looked up at Angelique, then at Selwyn. “Is it rot, sir?” he murmured. “I wonder …”

There was a commotion in the hall, and then the door flew open. Nate stood in the doorway, his hair ruffled, his coat askew. He raised his hand and pointed at Angelique. “Arrest that woman, sir!” he demanded, breathing heavily. “She has killed a man.”

 

“Be silent,” commanded Stafford. “And close the bloody door! Phipps!”

Nate stumbled into the room, pushed by Mr. Phipps behind him. Ian ducked through the door, too, his expression alive and alert. He closed the door as Stafford tried to quiet Nate.

“She cut his throat, without warning,” he was
saying loudly. “We agreed that he was to be bound back to New York for trial, sir!” Then he looked at Selwyn, still standing silently, and exclaimed in relief, “Lord Selwyn! Add your voice to mine; you know how this could adversely affect relations between our governments. I demand an explanation on behalf of my President why your agent killed the man I worked so diligently, and within your requirements, to apprehend.”

Selwyn shifted his weight. “I cannot speak on matters of British sovereignty,” he said stiffly.

“Mr. Avery, I beg you to retire to another room and compose yourself,” Stafford said. “We will be happy to address your concerns, if events have not unfolded as planned.”

“Yes, he should be told,” said Angelique. “They should all be told, once and for all. Did you command me to kill that man to hide Lord Selwyn's crime for all eternity?”

Phipps's jaw dropped open. Ian started. “What?” he demanded.

“Madame, we should discuss this privately.” Stafford's eyes were cold with warning.

She shook her head. “No, I think not,” she said gently. “Monsieur Avery deserves to know, as he was honest with you in every way. Ian and Phipps deserve to know that you have not abused your office to curry favor with a man of Lord Selwyn's position. And I deserve to know if I have stained my hands with blood not in defense of Britain and her people, but in defense of one man's secret shame. Did you know Lord Selwyn's reasons when he told you Jacob Dixon was a danger to the Crown and must be killed?”

Stafford's gaze drifted to the journal again and rested there a moment. Then he looked at Lord Selwyn. “No, I did not.”

His admission, quietly spoken though it was, crackled in the air like a lightning bolt. “You ordered Mr. Stafford to have Dixon killed?” Nate asked the earl, as though he could hardly believe his ears.

Selwyn's eyes darted around the room. “I am not going to discuss government affairs in these circumstances.”

“And you acted on it without proof or even explanation?” Nate asked Stafford, even more incredulously. Without waiting for an answer, he turned on Angelique. “And you simply obeyed? What of a woman's tender heart?”

She looked at him without expression. “It was my duty.” She turned back to Stafford. “But no more. I am done.”

“Wallace,” said Stafford in a deadly quiet voice. “Remove her.”

“I tender my resignation from this moment on,” Angelique said. “I will go my way, and you shall go yours.”

Stafford hesitated. “My dear, I cannot let you do that.”

Her heart skipped a beat. Slowly she slid her knife from its sheath and faced Ian. “Do not try it,” she said to him. Ian hesitated. His gaze shot to Stafford.

Nate threw out his hands in alarm. “Christ! There's no need for that!”

“Mr. Avery, I believe you should leave,” Stafford told him.

“You've got a madwoman on your hands,” Nate charged, thrusting out his finger at her. “I saw her
work, sir; the man was butchered, his throat cut from ear to ear.” Selwyn let out an audible gulp, inching away from where Angelique stood, knife in hand.

“Mr. Avery, leave,” said Stafford again. “Wallace, take her to Mr. Phipps's office.”

“Ian,” she said softly, keeping her eyes fixed on the big Scot.

Ian's face twisted with concern. “Come, lass,” he said gently. “Put the knife away. You know I won't hurt you.”

“I am not going with you, not on his orders,” she replied. “I am done with this. He has used us, Ian, do you not see? On the word of men such as him”—she jerked her head toward Selwyn—“he has sent us out to spy upon, to follow, to incriminate, to murder. It does not matter why to him; we are just weapons for the government to use. For all we know, this has all been to his profit. Lord Selwyn has proven he will go to great lengths to keep his secret. I am sure he would be glad to pay a few thousand pounds for peace of mind.”

“Madame Martand,” said Stafford sharply. “Be silent. Wallace, take her downstairs, or I will have you taken with her.”

Slowly she shook her head. “I have killed a man because I took your word that it was necessary. How many other men in the Home Office or the Parliament or the nobility would like to have someone conveniently killed, not by their own hand but by the anonymous hand of a government assassin? They would have no guilt, yet they would reap the benefit. And all they have to do is ask you.”

“That is not what I do.” A vein was throbbing in
Stafford's temple. “Have you really believed yourself to be killing innocent men and settling private scores?”

“No,” she whispered. “I believed I did the right thing. And that is what haunts me.”

Stafford said nothing. Phipps was white-faced but with the bright light of glee in his eyes. Angelique felt a moment of black humor that at least she could finally fulfill Phipps's expectations of her.

“Wait a moment,” said Nate loudly. “You've done this before?”

She flicked him a cold glance. “Yes.”

Nate turned to Selwyn. “Did you know about this?” he demanded. “Did you know, sir, that you were sending me into an assassination ring? That is not at all what we discussed—I wanted to take him to New York for trial! This must constitute a serious breach of protocol, sir, and an open affront to my country.”

Selwyn's eyes darted to Stafford. “Of course not,” he said stiffly. “You have been seriously misled, Mr. Avery.”

“Mr. Phipps,” said Stafford ominously, “show Mr. Avery out. He must catch his ship back to America, I am sure. Mr. Wallace, take Madame Martand belowstairs. I will deal with her shortly.”

“No.” Angelique moved toward the door. “I am done speaking. I shall leave. If I have your word that you will deal with Lord Selwyn's deception appropriately, you will have nothing to fear from me. I am ready for a new life.”

“That won't be necessary.” Stafford turned to Lord Selwyn. “We have worked together well for
many years, Madame Martand. Surely you see that I still have need of you…and you have need of me.”

“No. You must deal without me from now on.”

“Don't be hasty, Angelique,” said Ian quietly.

“Wallace,” warned Stafford.

Ian held up one hand to him. “Wait a bit and think,” he said to Angelique. “Let's go have a drink. Tomorrow we'll talk it over, and sort it all out.”

Slowly, she shook her head, backing away from him. “No, Ian. I am no longer in his employ.”

Ian glanced at Stafford, who made an impatient motion. “Remember who you work for,” the spymaster said to him. “Remember all we must protect.”

Ian turned to her, his face set. Angelique's heart pounded. Ian advanced on her, hands still up-raised. For a moment he looked at her, his blue eyes clouded. “Do you really want it to come to this?” he said quietly—pleadingly.

This was the part of the plan Ian had hated most, and not unreasonably. She hadn't liked it herself, but knew it was her last defense against living the rest of her life under the shadow of Stafford's reach. She had thought it through, persuaded Nate and Ian both to accept it, and told them and herself she was prepared for it. But now it was upon her; Ian was offering one more chance before she crossed her Rubicon. Her heart climbed into her throat. She forced it back down, stiffened her spine, and raised her knife. “Remember your promise,” she breathed, then spoke normally. “What choice have I?”

His face twisted in sorrow for a moment, then he lunged. Angelique made a wild swipe with her knife, without much force. Her blade flashed, draw
ing blood from his arm in a shallow cut. Nate began cursing like mad, shoving Selwyn down behind Stafford's desk and managing to knock over several chairs in the process. Phipps was shouting at both of them, even as he scurried behind a bookcase. Stafford barked something at Phipps, who shouted back. Angelique heard it all as Ian caught her wrist, the one holding the knife, and twisted. He backed her to the wall, his tall frame looming over her and blocking out the chaos in the rest of the room from her view. She struggled against his grip, appreciating for the first time how strong Ian was. He could hold her like this all day and she would be powerless to stop him. “Ian,” she cried, looking up at him. “Please…”

“Madame, you have gone too far,” shouted Stafford at the same time. “Wallace! Take care of her!”