You Only Love Once (6 page)

But Madame Martand evidently had no idea he was there. For a while she strolled through the meadow, picking wildflowers as if she had not a care in the world. Nate wondered what she was thinking about as she wandered aimlessly through the tall grass, reaching out from time to time to run her gloved hand over the rustling tips. Nate began to feel foolish again, and then puzzled, as she let herself into the graveyard behind the small church at the top of the hill.

She wound her way through the graves and then seated herself on a stone bench. She made a lonely figure in a sea of wild heartsease, her dark bonnet and gray dress stark against the sun-bleached grasses and the colorful little flowers that swayed and bobbed against her skirt. Nate shifted through the woods until he was only a hundred yards or so away; the trees grew thin, and he inched dangerously close to exposure, but still couldn't see her
face. The bonnet shielded her expression, and he wondered why she was there. Despite the location and the quiet air of her pose, there wasn't much of mourning in it. There was something very…still, but so alert, about her; he had the impression she had come to think instead of to pay respects.

After a while a woman came out of the rectory at the side of the church. She was short and plump and simply dressed, with a basket over one arm. The rector's wife, he guessed. She made her way to the woman on the bench, whom she greeted with a smile and a bob of her head. They chatted for a few minutes, and the rector's wife gestured toward the rectory with one hand. Madame Martand stood up with a nod. She scattered the meadow flowers she had picked atop a grave in front of her, and went with the plump woman around the church into the rectory.

In the shadow of the rustling trees, Nate narrowed his eyes. She came to visit a grave? Everyone was entitled to sentimentality, he supposed, even the most capable spies. Part of him felt a bit ashamed, that he had followed her on such a somber mission, but part of him also wondered how somber it was. And by far the largest part of him was curious enough to wait it out and see what she did next.

A
ngelique lifted her teacup to her face and breathed deeply. No one prepared tea quite like Melanie, with a hint of lemon and mint in it. Angelique always associated the scent with her childhood. Lemon and mint made her think of Melanie's arm around her, rocking her to sleep or consoling her for some hurt. It had been a long time since she needed Melanie's shoulder to cry on, but the scent of lemon and mint tea always brought back a bit of that comfort and security.

“Sugar?” Melanie Carswell smiled at her. “Unless you have lost your taste for sweet?”

Angelique shook her head as she reached for the sugar. “Never. You know I would swim in honey, if it were not so sticky.”

“I remember.” Melanie's voice was as fond as any mother's could be. “But you have not come all this way for sweetened tea.”

She took a long sip of the tea before she answered, letting the familiar flavors swirl over her tongue. “But I have indeed,” she said. “No one makes tea like you, not even Lisette. I have tried everything to teach her, but she refuses to learn. Not even when I
threaten to beat her can she do it; instead she sniffs at me and says she shall pour brandy into the tea until I cease complaining.”

Melanie laughed. “She must crush the leaves just a little, and add them to the steeping water. Then it will be the same.”

“It will never be the same, and we both acknowledge it,” Angelique replied. “So I must come all the way to Whitton or do without.”

“Yes,
that
is why you come to see me.” Melanie paused, waiting.

Angelique said nothing and sipped her tea. She ought to come see Melanie more often, and not just when she was preparing to go off on one of Stafford's assignments. Melanie was the closest thing to family she had, practically her mother. Angelique did not remember her own mother, a French countess who had gone to the guillotine when Angelique was only an infant. She remembered only Melanie, her mother's maid who had smuggled her out of France and brought her to England, and safety. Melanie deserved more than this sort of visit, with the shadow of death hanging over it, as if she were a priest and Angelique had come to purge her conscience and seek absolution for the sins she was about to commit. The trouble was, she needed that absolution, since she never knew just which additional sins would be required in the course of her assignment. And Melanie was the only person on earth who truly knew everything about her—the only person Angelique loved and trusted enough to tell.

“Where is he sending you this time?” Melanie finally asked.

The gentle question stung. She added more sugar to her tea and stirred it carefully. “Nowhere,” she said, watching the steam curl up from the liquid. “It is in London, for now.”

“Hmmph.” Melanie's low opinion of Stafford was clear in her tone. “I hope it is not too dangerous.”

That made her smile wryly. Everything Stafford had her do was dangerous. Of course, he only sent her because she had made herself equal to it, and capable of deadly response. She never told Melanie any of that, but she suspected Melanie knew it anyway. And Melanie certainly hadn't raised her to be a soft, weak female. “It is not a typical job,” she said, then stopped. The American's shocking green eyes flashed through her mind, and she shifted uneasily at just how odd this assignment was.

“He wishes you to merely follow someone? Steal something?” Melanie guessed. “Nothing that involves knives or garrotes or playing the courtesan?”

“I do not know what it will involve; perhaps all that, perhaps none. It may be simple, but I suspect…I suspect it will be more trouble than anyone knows.”

Melanie's plump face tightened, her expression almost fierce. Angelique glanced at her, and for a moment thought she saw how Melanie had lied and bribed her way out of France. Melanie had never told her exactly what she'd had to do to escape the bloody Revolution, but Angelique guessed that experience was what made Melanie so understanding, if still not quite approving, of her profession now.

“I don't know that it will,” she went on, choosing her words carefully even as she wondered why it
was so difficult to tell Melanie. Normally she had no trouble; she never revealed names or exact destinations, and never a hint of what Stafford hoped to achieve, but she wanted Melanie to have an idea, in case something disastrous should ever happen in the course of her work. No one else but Melanie would care or notice if Angelique Martand simply vanished off the face of the earth. That was why she had come, as usual, and yet for some reason she felt at a loss. “I am not working with the usual people. It is an American who will be with me, and I am not sure of him. He is…”
An enigma
, she thought. “He keeps his own counsel,” she finished. “But the main objective is his; he brought the job to Stafford, and I am sent to keep an eye on him as well as fulfill my own task for Stafford.” She wondered how this Avery would react when she cut the villain's throat. She must confirm with Stafford how she should proceed if he objected.

“But what interest does Stafford have in American affairs?” Melanie exclaimed. She looked as unpleasantly surprised as Angelique had been by this introduction of a foreigner. That was mildly comforting in some way, especially after Ian's careless disregard.

“None he has told me. We are to find someone the American is pursuing. I hope it will not be too difficult, or take too long. The person is believed to be in London, and we must merely run him to ground.”
Then kill him.
“Monsieur Dexter will notify you, as usual, when it is over,” she added. Angelique always came in person before a job, but only on the pretext of visiting a grave. Afterward, once she was safely
home, she had her solicitor send word to Melanie that all was well. Ever since she became Stafford's spy, she had kept this veil between her and Melanie. It was better for both of them if no one knew of their connection.

“You should leave this,” Melanie urged her. “Resign. Tell him you do not wish to do something so…” She fluttered her fingers in frustration, searching for the word. “So
méprisable
.”

Angelique flicked one hand. “Everything he asks me to do is despicable. I have made my peace with it.”

“But you are not at peace with it this time. I can see it in your face and hear it in your voice.” She paused. “I thought…I suspected you were tiring of this life.”

Of course Melanie knew. Wordlessly she nodded. Just once.

“Every time you come to see me, I always hope it is to tell me you are done with it,” Melanie said quietly. “Every time I see you in the graveyard waiting for me, I pray you have come to tell me you have fallen in love, or have decided to open a millinery shop, or to travel the world—anything but this. I live in fear,
chérie
, that your every visit might be the last I ever see or hear of you. I shall have betrayed your honored mama if I saved you from the madness in Paris only to let you give your life for some English clerk's scheme.”

“You have never betrayed my mother,” Angelique snapped. “Never. And whatever I bring upon myself…” She reined in her temper and spoke more evenly. “You of all people must understand why I do this.”

Melanie's mouth pinched. “You cannot avenge what happened to your parents.”

“I don't try,” she said testily. “But I do know that when they needed a savior, none was there. Perhaps if someone had taken Marat's life when he was still a dirty rebel in the streets, my parents would not have been killed for a piece of land. Perhaps if the ministers and King had fought the anarchy instead of hiding away in their palaces, they would not have lost their heads, along with the heads of so many other decent people. I do not pretend the English government is a beacon of beneficence, but they keep order.”

“
Oui
, I realize that,” said Melanie, retreating at once, lowering her eyes like a servant. “I am the one who taught you to hate the Revolutionaries, after all.”

Angelique's anger faded, as it always did at that expression. Once Melanie had said Angelique looked so much like her mother when in a temper, it was impossible for her not to yield. Melanie's loyalty to the late countess ran deep and absolute, and it reminded Angelique how much Melanie had done for her. She leaned forward and clasped the older woman's hand. “I know you speak from concern,” she said softly. “I am sorry to disappoint you time after time.”

“You are not a disappointment to me.”

Angelique smiled. “This time I am not. Because…” She hesitated. “This assignment will be my last.” Hope and cautious joy sprang into Melanie's eyes. “I am still not even certain I will do all he wants. He asks a great deal of me, and I do not look forward to it.”

“What does he want?” Melanie demanded.

“He asks me to pose as a bored wife.” Angelique pulled a face. “With an American nabob who wishes to play spy. Can you imagine? But we shall see how things begin. It may not be so bad.” Melanie didn't look convinced, but she said nothing. Even if she asked, Angelique would not tell her more, and they both knew it.

To change the subject, Angelique opened her reticule and took out a plump packet. “This is for you.”

“For the poor,” said Melanie firmly as she accepted it. Angelique lifted one shoulder; if it pleased Melanie to give the money to the poor, so be it. She knew her foster mother wouldn't spend the money on herself, but they had reached an agreement. Angelique gave the money freely, and Melanie didn't protest how she earned it.

She rose to her feet. “I should go.” Melanie put aside the package of money and walked her to the door. Angelique took another look around the comfortable rectory. “Mr. Carswell is out, I presume.”

“He will be sorry to have missed you,” Melanie said. “Someday you will come for a real visit, I hope, and stay with us. You are always welcome.”

Angelique felt almost wistful. She sometimes thought of visiting Melanie openly, without the artifice of visiting the graveyard. Mr. Carswell, Melanie's husband, was a generous, decent man and never condemned her—although, one must admit, it was highly unlikely Melanie had told him the precise truth about Angelique and her occupation. “Perhaps,” she said softly. “I think of it often.”

Melanie beamed. “You must. Finish this job, and come to me. Spend the winter with us.”

“It is possible…” She paused; perhaps it was better to say nothing. “Do give Mr. Carswell my regards.”

“Of course. I will look for Mr. Dexter's letter every day.” Melanie embraced her. Angelique caught a whiff of lemon and mint again and felt another pang. More than ever before, she had a wild urge to accept Melanie's invitation to stay. Hang Stafford and his messy assassinations. Let him send someone else with that mysterious American with the watchful green eyes, and she would just remain in Whitton with Melanie, tending the quiet graveyard and sipping lemon-mint tea.

Instead she kissed Melanie's cheek and turned to the door. “
Au revoir
, Mellie,” she murmured. Melanie rallied a smile, then opened the door and bid her good-bye as politely as if they had been strangers. Angelique walked out, heading for the road back into Whitton where she had told her driver to wait. The die was cast now. She would see her solicitor when she returned to London, and tell Lisette to pack.

 

Nate watched her leave. Her visit had been less than an hour, and the rector's wife showed her to the door with a kind smile. He'd managed to creep closer to the church and had a better view. She went through the graveyard again, but straight to the road this time. He followed until she reached the road back into the small town and headed down it.

What a puzzle. Had she come all this way just to lay flowers on a grave? Whose grave would that be? He couldn't see what this could have to do with his business, but he had come all this way and now
the curiosity was overshadowing even his desire to follow her. There was little she could do on that road except return to town and her hired carriage, and he could catch her again before long on the way back to London. For now he wanted to know what had brought her out here.

He turned back toward the church, this time taking the road instead of the thicket path. It was a quiet English chapel, weathered gray stone with a bell atop the tower. Trying not to look too focused, he let himself into the graveyard by the gate and walked the paths, studying each grave. The one she had sat over was near the back, a good twenty feet from the rear fence. He paced himself, working his way back.

Just before he reached that grave scattered with wilting wildflowers, the rector's wife came out of her house again. She shaded her eyes to look at him, then came briskly toward him. As she drew near, Nate doffed his hat and bowed. “Good day.”

“Good day, sir.” He caught the lilt of French in her voice. How interesting. A coincidence—or not? “Are you seeking a particular grave?”

He glanced around, affecting a look of apology. “Yes, although I am not sure it will be here. My mother asked me to look for her grandparents, and see that the site is well tended.” Hopefully that was ancient enough.

“What are their names?” she asked politely. “My husband has been the rector here for almost ten years. I am Mrs. Carswell.” Up close she was a pleasant-looking woman, plump and gray-haired. Her long thin nose and high forehead spoke of her
Gallic ancestry, and there was a touch of aristocratic reserve in her manner.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance. Nathaniel Avery, at your service.” He bowed his head. “My great-grandparents were Mary and Edward Owens,” he said, truthfully. If he ever got caught following Madame Martand, let him have a solid excuse. “They lived for a time near Richmond.” That part wasn't true, but it was the only town name he could recall from the journey here.