You Only Love Once (5 page)

N
ate returned to the ship in a thoughtful mood. Angelique Martand was not at all what he had expected, and he still wasn't sure what to make of her. There were a dozen ways she could complicate his true purpose, but perhaps she could also serve it. Still, it would be like holding a copperhead snake in his fist, terrifying to have near but too deadly to let go. He couldn't keep from wondering just what her bite would be like.

When he went into his cabin, his traveling companion was pounding something in the stone mortar with a pestle. Now that they were in port and not as subject to the roll of the ocean, Prince had set up his chemistry equipment again. The table was covered with a collection of pots and jars, some with lids, some with glass tubes sticking out the top, and one with smoke wafting from it. Nate had little idea what he was brewing, but it would probably come in handy, whatever it was. That, and the fact that he didn't trust anyone more than he trusted Prince, was why Nate had wanted him to come to England. “Well?” Prince asked without looking up.

Nate stripped off the overlarge brown coat and
let it fall on a chair. “I saw him,” he replied. “As much a viper as I expected. Selwyn obviously wrote to him, warning him of what I would say; he was prepared for everything I asked.” He paused. “A little too prepared. He wants Dixon found even more than we do.”

Prince frowned at the contents of the mortar. “He said that?”

“He didn't have to,” Nate said. He tossed aside the ill-fitting waistcoat as well, stretching his arms overhead in relief. He much preferred the more comfortable clothing of the frontier or the sea, but looking like a country buffoon with airs had suited his purpose today. “It was in everything he did and said. Not only was he waiting for me, he had already sent for an agent of his to accompany me.”

“Very efficient,” muttered Prince.

“Not even the English are that efficient.”

A deep frown crossed Prince's face. “Will this agent be a problem?”

Nate dropped into the chair opposite his companion, tugging off his heavy boots. “I don't know yet. She might be.”

“She?” Prince had leaned over to peer into the smoking jar, but now he glanced up, a sly smile splitting his dark face. “Don't tell me he gave you a
woman
? A female spy. Did he pat you on the head, too, and tell you to run home to your mammy?”

Nate laughed. “Not in so many words, although I think he would have, if he thought he could get Dixon on his own. I told you, he wants Dixon very badly.”

“You said that before. Why would that be? The man hasn't set foot in England for a decade at least.”

This time Nate gazed out the small window, thinking before he answered. Already the smells and sounds of London had permeated the ship. He could see masts and rigging, dotted with sea-birds, and hear the calls of boatmen and sailors as they worked, loading and unloading cargo. “I've no idea,” he finally admitted. “I could make a guess; Dixon probably had his thieving ways well established before he left for New York. He might still be wanted here. Of course, if that were the case, it would seem best to mount a determined search without delay, and Stafford agreed completely with my request for stealth and secrecy. In fact, he agreed with almost everything I asked. Somehow I doubt the Crown would be so eager to hand him over to us if they had a prior claim on him.”

“Then what?” Prince shrugged. “They send a woman to charm the breeches off him? Odd way to punish a man, if you ask me.”

Nate just shook his head. He didn't know, but he was quite sure he was right about Stafford being just as anxious, if not more so, to find Jacob Dixon. But why? That was a mystery, and the choice of agent selected to assist him didn't make things any clearer.

“So, what is she like, this lady spy? What is the plan now?”

What was she like? He had no idea, not really. “She's a beauty,” he replied. “French. Slim and petite, the sort of woman who can appear as helpless as a spring lamb.” Prince snorted in disgust. “I said
appear
; she's not helpless at all. She offered to cut my throat personally, and there's something in the way she moves that radiates…power.” He was a little surprised to hear himself say that last word, but it
was true. In that carriage ride, she had been hiding nothing from him. Whatever else she might be, Angelique Martand was nobody's fool, and nothing like a weakling.

Prince snorted again, then put back his head and laughed. “A beautiful French lady,” he said, grinning wickedly. “Full of power. You rolled snake eyes on this one, eh, Nathaniel? She will keep your eyes open, and perhaps not where they should be.”

“You'd better have your eyes open, too,” Nate told him. “I don't know much about her except that she's a mystery. Don't let yourself be taken in by her appearance, whatever that appearance is. She's Stafford's agent, and I don't trust him—or her—not to have other motives beyond serving Lord Selwyn's directive.”

“Of course not. Never trust the English devils.” Prince pointed the pestle at him. “So what are you to do, while she is off charming her way into Dixon's confidence? That is what this Englishman intends for her to do, isn't it?”

Slowly Nate nodded. “But she didn't seem happy about that. In fact, she doesn't want to do this at all. I wonder how Stafford plans to persuade her…?”

Prince watched him for a few minutes. “Bugger the lot of them,” he said finally. “We do not need them. One hundred dollars will hire a brace of investigators who can track the thief down. We can snatch him ourselves, exercise a little tender persuasion”—he tapped the variety of weapons spread on the table in front of him—“and be off.”

“Monroe didn't want that,” Nate said dryly. “You know I was willing enough, but when the president says no…” He shrugged. “Besides, we're commit
ted now; Selwyn and Stafford know all about our presence and purpose, to say nothing of this Martand woman. It's the diplomatic way or no way, and I'm not going home without Jacob Dixon chained to the mast.”

The other man cursed him good-naturedly. “I hardly know you anymore. When did rules and diplomacy matter to you?” He pointed his finger in accusation. “You want to work with this pretty French girl. Corrupted into propriety by a skirt!”

Nate caught up one of his discarded boots and chucked it at Prince. “For Ben? Anything.”

Prince ducked the flying boot. “Ah. Blame it on the general.” He shook his head and began sprinkling the dust from the mortar into the smoking pot.

It all came down to Ben, who was the real victim here. General Benjamin Davies had been a hero of the American Revolution, leading his New England militiamen, including Nate's father, through the woods and over mountains to fight the British. Ben lost his right arm at Saratoga but taught himself to swing the sword with his left arm, and was back in the saddle within a couple of months. After the war he had gone into business and politics, privately saying each would balance the deleterious effects of the other on his constitution, but age and infirmity finally caught up to the general. In thanks for his war service, Ben had been appointed Collector of the Port of New York, collecting tax duties on shipments through the harbor, a rather plum post of some standing. Since the loss of his arm, Ben had employed a secretary who handled much of his correspondence, and as collector he had needed even more assistance. Jacob Dixon had appeared the
perfect candidate—capable, conscientious, modest. Before long Ben had left much of the actual collection to Dixon, until one day Dixon said he had inherited a fortune from an aunt in England and was returning home at once. The day after his ship sailed, a gaping discrepancy was discovered in the accounts of the port.

A close examination of the books revealed Dixon's deceit, and the theft of over four hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Ben was devastated. As collector, he was responsible; he pledged his every possession to the government to repay the debt. It was a terrible blow to a man who had already lost an arm in service to his country, especially now that he was old and in declining health. Nate, Ben's godson, had been only one of the men who called upon President Monroe to ask for clemency for an old soldier.

Monroe willingly believed that Ben had not stolen the money, but he was caught. The young country needed those funds desperately, and Ben
had
been responsible for their collection. The best the president could do was agree to let Nate go after Jacob Dixon in an attempt to recover as much of the money as possible, and bring Dixon back for trial so that at least Ben's name would be cleared. Nate, who wouldn't have even been born if Ben hadn't saved his father's life at the battle of Brandywine, refused to go home without Jacob Dixon—with or without the money—and he'd work with Lucifer's spies if that's what it took. If he failed, Ben would lose everything, not only his lands and modest fortune but his good name as well.

And Nate was determined not to fail, no matter what was required of him. President Monroe had
sent him along with an introduction to the Foreign Office to smooth the way. Lord Selwyn had been appropriately shocked by the account of Dixon's crime, but also disinclined to simply hand over a British citizen to American justice. He was sympathetic enough to send Nate on to John Stafford, indicating that Stafford was the man to see in cases of such political delicacy. Now Nate had Stafford's cooperation—or interference—and a Frenchwoman to watch his every move. As long as he ended up in possession of at least some of the stolen funds, and Jacob Dixon's person, he was fine with all that.

But if either Stafford or Madame Martand got in his way…he was just as willing to take matters into his own hands.

 

A note arrived early the next day from Stafford that he would need two days to make arrangements, and to expect further word within that time. Madame Martand must have accepted after all, Nate thought, since the note made no mention of a change in plans. For some reason this didn't annoy him at all; quite the contrary.

“I'm going to have another look at Madame Martand,” he said, pulling on a long gray coat and taking up a plain black hat. It was a cool, cloudy day, so he also grabbed an umbrella for extra concealment. Prince gave him a long, speaking look, a wicked grin curling his mouth, but went back to his experiments without a word. Nate ignored the look and left.

He found his way back to her house in good time. Retracing a path through a city, with so many more fixed landmarks to note, was always easier than retracing a path through the forest, and Nate was
rather good at doing that. Fortunately for him, she lived in a quiet area opposite a small park, where he could linger out of sight for hours, if necessary. Not that he hoped to; staring at her house wouldn't give him much idea of what kind of person she was or what she would be like to work with. He tied up his horse at a nearby shop and went to scout the area.

But she helped him out by leaving the house. Nate had barely taken a turn around the street when a hired carriage rattled up and stopped in front of her house. Almost at once the front door opened, and the lady herself walked down the steps, demure and prim in a gray traveling dress and black bonnet. She stepped lightly into the carriage, pausing only to speak to the sturdy-looking maid who followed her out to the street. The maid nodded, the carriage started off, and on impulse Nate slipped quickly back to his horse and followed.

He didn't know what he expected to gain by doing so. He'd been too far away to hear what she told the driver. Perhaps she was going to have tea with a friend or going shopping for new gloves, and he would waste an entire day that could be better spent tracking Jacob Dixon's movements. But too much depended on his knowing her, this odd French spy who worked for the English and seemed perfectly at ease offering to cut his throat. His entire enterprise now rested on how well he could manage her, and she was a complete enigma. He had rather be safe than sorry, he told himself as he drifted into the swelling stream of traffic and kept one eye on her carriage.

They headed out of the city, around the wide expanse of Hyde Park and then west on the turnpike.
With his rudimentary knowledge of London geography, Nate was reduced to reading signposts as they passed through villages and toll gates, and still traveled on. Where the devil was she going—and why? He hadn't seen any luggage, so hadn't thought she would go far or stay long. But as he rode on, hanging back to avoid being seen, he began to think this had been a damned foolish idea. He should have stayed in London and taken advantage of her absence to knock on her door and chat up the servants. Servants always knew pretty well what sort of person employed them.

After almost two hours, the carriage finally turned into an inn yard at one end of a small town. Nate reined in his horse at once, dismounting and pretending to tighten the saddle girth as he watched from the corner of his eye. After a few moments Madame Martand walked out of the yard and headed down the dusty lane on foot.

Curiosity had long since overtaken Nate's mind, so he walked his horse to the inn and stabled it. He noticed the carriage driver had retired to the taproom, presumably waiting for his passenger to return from whatever her errand was. He didn't feel too conspicuous, leaving the horse there—no one would recognize it as his—but he did school his voice into clipped British tones just in case, silently thanking his Hertfordshire mother for raising him to speak “proper English,” as she called it.

Madame Martand had vanished from sight by the time he walked back out of the stable yard, but it was a straight road that followed the dip and rise of the land. He strode briskly along until her slight figure came into view, and then moderated his pace
to stay far behind her. With every step his curiosity grew by leaps and bounds.

After a while she turned and went south, climbing a stile over the rock wall into a meadow with a thin dirt track through the middle. A local shortcut, he thought; she'd been here before. He left the road, moving into a small wood that ran alongside the meadow. He hung back behind the trees, staying close to the shadows and stepping soundlessly through the thicket. He flexed the muscles of his abdomen, controlling his breathing until it was long, deep, and silent, as he had learned to do in the forests of New England. Giving oneself away there could be fatal, and given her threat the other day, it might well be the same here with this woman.