Authors: Alyssa Alexander
“G
O TO THE
opera without me, Lilias. I couldn’t possibly attend.” Catherine flung an arm over her eyes. “It’s the headache.” She moaned it. Likely for dramatic effect.
Lilias wasn’t fooled in the least. In the nine years she’d known Catherine, the woman had never had a headache—at least not one so debilitating she couldn’t attend some ton function. She smiled down at the lady reclining pathetically in her bed. “I am worried about you, Catherine.”
She rubbed a hand over Catherine’s arm. The older woman wore a lovely gown of green silk with matching feathers in her hair. The feathers, poor things, were rather crushed against the pillow.
“It is just one of my headaches. I shall be fine.” The arm covering Catherine’s face twitched. One dark eye peeked out to dart around the room. “The dowager marchioness will be so disappointed.”
Oh, the machinations.
But two could play at that game.
“Perhaps, if you are feeling so poorly, I should stay home. I prefer to take care of you myself, instead of your maid doing so.” She stifled a laugh when the green feathers in Catherine’s hair jerked right along with their mistress’s head.
“No!” Catherine’s voice rose. “No, of course not,” she added more quietly. “I wouldn’t dream of ruining your evening. Please, go without me.”
“If you are certain?”
“I couldn’t concentrate, what with the pain.” The sigh accompanying the words was pitiful.
Lilias rubbed Catherine’s arm again before moving to the door. She opened it, stepped through. Then she tossed over her shoulder, “You know, you could have staged this an hour ago and saved yourself the trouble of changing into your evening gown.”
A sharp gasp came from the bed. Lilias pulled the door shut, knowing full well Catherine would pop out of the bed the moment the door was closed. Laughing, and not bothering to quiet it, Lilias moved through Fairchild House to meet the waiting carriage.
Catherine’s antics should have irritated her, but for whatever reason, Catherine thought she was furthering Lilias’s cause—whether it was with Angel or his mother wasn’t clear. Still, the stratagem was devised with love as its base. She couldn’t be angry with love.
Graves held out a cape when she entered the front hall.
“Thank you, Graves.” She smiled at the butler as he set the cape over her shoulders. “I shall be back late. I have a key, so please don’t ask anyone to stay awake for me.”
“No, ma’am.”
Someone would, anyway. Probably Graves himself. “Have I ever said thank you for taking such good care of the family?”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am?” For once the calm butler look was gone from his face. He looked truly startled. Tugging on the hem of his jacket, he said, “We are in service. It is our duty—”
“No.” She angled her head and smiled at him. “It is your duty to feed us and dress us and clean Fairchild House. It is not your duty to care for us. But you do, regardless.”
Craggy features softened. Bushy brows rose. “I cleaned the soil from Major Fairchild’s pistol, ma’am, and the potted plant is none the worse for wear.”
The laugh burst out of her, as did the affection. “Oh, Graves, you are certainly the best butler in London.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “And a good friend.”
“Er, thank you, ma’am.” He blushed the most adorable shade of pink, spreading from protruding ear to protruding ear.
“Now, don’t wait up for me.”
“No, ma’am.” He opened the front door. Stars, clouds and smoke from London’s chimneys competed in the night sky. “Enjoy the opera.”
She walked lightly down the steps, scanning the street as she went. It was night, but the street was lit from windows and carriage lamps. Vehicles moved, people walked, moonlight flickered.
Then she saw what she’d been looking for: the man at the corner. There was always a man at the corner of the street. The agents attempted to be unobtrusive. If she hadn’t been watching for men walking up and down the street multiple times a day or returning to the same corner, she wouldn’t have noticed them.
Their faces changed, but they were always there. It made her itchy. She felt their gazes between her shoulder blades when she walked in Hyde Park and at the nape of her neck when she shopped on Bond Street.
Tonight she would be at the opera with Angel. Well protected. Well guarded. Gathering up her skirts, she ascended into the carriage. The door slammed shut. She settled back against the seat and sighed. None of the agents watching her were Angel, though Jones had kept watch numerous times. She’d become used to seeing his face and short-cropped brown hair, he was there so often.
She hadn’t seen Angel since the night the intruder had entered her room. A day had become two, then three. Then a week. Perhaps it was the separation making her itchy. She found herself wondering what he was doing at odd times of the day—and the night. She closed her eyes. Only a week, yet she wanted the brush of his hand against her cheek, his silky hair beneath her fingertips. She wanted the scent of him to surround her and the weight of him over her.
Her fingers clutched the handle of her reticule. Their behavior at the opera would be scrutinized by his mother, his sisters-in-law and all the attending gossips of the ton
.
She didn’t care. She was determined to enjoy herself. With Angel.
He was waiting for her in the hall. She watched him as the footman led her to the curtains hiding the opera box. Leaning casually against the wall, Angel studied his pocket watch. It clicked shut. Closing his fist around it, he shook the watch lightly before tucking it into his pocket. He appeared to have no cares in the world. But his gaze was sharp when it scanned the hallway, the patrons. His back was to the wall.
She wondered if he’d learned those spylike characteristics through training, or if he’d been prone to them before.
Tawny eyes lit when they saw her. “Mrs. Fairchild.” He scanned her from head to toe. Lips curved in an approving grin. “You look lovely.”
She fought the urge to twirl. “Do you like the gown? I just had it made.” The deep purple was entirely too bold. She loved it.
He held out his hand. She set hers in it. A simple gesture, yet it sent her heart racing. She was glad to see him, and he her. That lovely feeling warmed her right to her toes.
“Delectable.” He brought her gloved fingers to his mouth. She felt his breath through the white satin. A smile still hovered on his lips. “Mrs. Fairchild, you are a treat.”
Oh, his eyes were wicked. She pursed her lips, though it was hard to hide her smile. “A treat to gulp in one bite? Or a treat to savor?”
“Both. As the moment calls for.” He leaned toward her. For a moment she thought he would kiss her. Her breath caught, suspended in a bubble of time. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
“And I you, my lord.” Angling her head, she peered between her lashes. That handsome face was a study in pleasure and longing and—she didn’t know what. Need. Hunger. Something far more base than longing. She felt the answer within herself, a slow unfolding of heat. She breathed deep, and breathed spice and man. “When may I come to you?” Her voice was hardly steady.
Someone passed in the corridor. The symphony began to tune the instruments with the discordant jumble of music that meant the performance was about to begin. Angel’s eyes flicked up, then side to side. Ever the spy.
When he spoke, the tone was lust over gravel. “Tonight.”
It was what she hoped to hear. “Send your carriage.”
“Jones will meet you at the corner at midnight.”
“Poor Jones. Roused from his bed to fetch his master’s light-o’-love.” She tapped his arm with her fan. A coquette’s gesture. It was a movement she’d used on dozens of men. But she couldn’t on Angel. She dropped the fan and let her hand rest on his arm. The muscle beneath her fingers flexed. “I’ll wait for the carriage. I’ll come to you.”
His gold gaze held hers just one more moment. Then he pulled her into the opera box. She blinked at the speed and sudden change in setting. A mild din rose from the pit, a murmur from the gallery. The lights had dimmed.
All heads in the box turned in their direction. Dowager and daughters-in-law, all in a row. Three pairs of curious eyes.
The dowager’s lips were pressed into a thin line when she looked their way. “Mrs. Fairchild.” Watchful eyes flicked between them. Lilias might have gained some approval at tea, but caution had overcome approval during the week’s separation. “Are you alone? I thought your mother-in-law would be joining us?”
“I’m sorry. She has a headache. She sends her regrets.”
The dowager narrowed her eyes. “I hope she recovers quickly.”
“Have you seen this performance yet? It’s truly spectacular.” The younger Lady Angelstone smoothed the striped yellow and puce skirt of her gown. Lilias could not imagine a more disagreeable combination of colors.
“I have not. But I am looking forward to it.” Lilias settled into the seat Angel directed her to.
“You’ll enjoy the show.” Lady Angelstone smiled, a small, welcoming gesture. She turned her attention toward the stage as the music began.
Angel leaned over. “I must apologize for Elise’s gown. She has the most hideous taste.”
“I heard that, Angel,” Lady Angelstone called out, eyes never leaving the stage. The dancers had begun to take their places.
“Do you disagree?” Angel called back.
The conversation was an echo of the concert. Lilias could see the pattern now. Almost like siblings, teasing each other. A comfort to both of them, no doubt.
“No.” Now Lady Angelstone slide her gaze over. “But I like it. Now, entertain Mrs. Fairchild and leave me be.”
Lilias flicked open her fan to hide her smile.
“Ignore her,” Angel said. Little lines fanned out from his eyes as he smiled. “She’s incorrigible.”
They turned to the performance as Miss Byrne took the stage. Music swelled, voices rose above it. Dimly she saw the patrons moving through the aisles, talking politics and gossiping. But she could only hear the music, the echo of it, the soul of it.
The aria stole her breath, winging it through the air toward the stage. As she tried to catch that breath back, she felt Angel lean toward her.
“Do you suppose anyone but us even hears it?”
She turned her head. His face was only inches away, his mouth just there. “Hears what?”
“The music.” He nodded toward the others in the box.
His family was exclaiming over two debutantes in the next box who were making cakes of themselves ogling a pair of bucks in the pit. She glanced to the other side. A peer and his veiled mistress flirted. Below, the crowd undulated as spectators greeted one another and talked. Did no one see the stage?
“Why do they come if they don’t watch the opera?”
“They see it in quick glances and small observances. But it is not the focus. They come to be seen. The opera is never about the performance. It’s about society and gossip and politics.” It wasn’t derision in his voice, but resignation. “I was convinced I was the only person who heard the music.”
“How could you not hear it?” Indeed, there was room for nothing else. The crowd was nothing more than the buzz of a bee in the midst of the symphony of notes.
She turned back to Angel. He leaned toward her in the chair. His shoulder brushed hers, the lightest of contacts. The brush of a butterfly wing. She felt it in every nerve ending of her body.
“Why do you love music?” she asked softly.
His eyes were serious. “I don’t know.”
“Quite unhelpful.” She smiled lightly. “Your mother told me you play the violin. Why did you tell me you did not play?”
A man’s eyes did not change color. Gold could not become black. But it seemed to her that Angel’s eyes darkened, swirling with some unnamed emotion. He did not smile at her in return. Lips remained firm and taut.
Her own smile faded.
His shoulder shifted away. The absence of him struck as powerfully as his touch. His gaze focused on the stage as the cast flittered across it.
“I have angered you.” She did not send her gaze to the performers. She could not look away as his face transformed. Cheekbones sharpened, brows lowered, eyes bored into the stage. Then he was a harsher version of himself.
“It’s intermission.” He stood and tugged his waistcoat into place. His voice rose to carry to his family. It was not harsh, or even irritated. “Would you care for punch?”
Two negatives, one acceptance from the Whitmores. He looked down at her. His eyes were unreadable, except that she had started to learn to read the unreadable. Or partly, at any rate. He was holding in a hurt. Some secret. He needed to step away.
“Yes, please,” she said.
He would be better for that reprieve from her. Attraction was as easy as breath. Sex was easier. But emotion—that was a complicated thing. Music held emotion. He felt it deeply, that much was clear.
His long fingers pushed back the curtain to the hall. They rested a moment on the frame as he sent a last look in her direction. Then he slipped through the opening. Heavy curtains swished into place behind him. Lilias watched the sway of gold fabric.
And wondered what lay behind his music.
B
EHIND THE SCENES
of the Theatre Royal the air was filled with noise and bustle. Lackeys darted between sets. One of the principals was half in, half out of her costume. Candles blazed everywhere, punctuated with the occasional dark corner.
Angel searched the dancers behind the stage. Skirts swirled, petticoats frothed around legs extended into high kicks and pointed toes. More than one interested look was sent his way. Though to the cast, he was just one more dandy looking for a mistress. There were more than a few men hunting their night’s pleasure backstage.
A young lackey carrying a bundle of fabric smacked headfirst into Angel’s chest. The breath wheezed out of the lad as the fabric tumbled to the ground. With the breath punched from his lungs, Angel was hard-pressed not to wheeze himself.
“Watch where yer going you, you bleedin’—” The boy shot a glance at Angel. Ducking his head, he snatched up the fabric. “Er. Sorry, m’lord.”
“No need.” Angel picked up one of the costumes himself. It looked to be a very colorful woman’s gown of pink silk. “Vivienne? Have you seen her?”
“Jest saw her ’ead that away, m’lord.” The boy jerked his head behind him before scampering off.
Angel turned in the direction the boy had indicated. He could see an opening to the passageways leading to dressing rooms. Like the boy, actors and dancers and singers scampered up and down the hall.
Vivienne had changed her costume from the one she had been wearing onstage. Her gown was a pretty blue confection of lace and ribbon and something flattering to her curves. A crown of flowers barely held her riotous dark curls in check. She raised one arm above her head and braced the other hand against the wall. A toe pointed out, a knee bent. A leg extended, full, slow, controlled. An arm circled around, a fluid sweep of lithe limbs. Her body was like an ayre, one movement flowing into the next. Graceful and soft. Though he had reason to know there was nothing soft about Vivienne La Fleur.
Her dark eyes met his. Her lips tipped up. The slightest of acknowledgments. She gave no other sign that she’d seen him, only continuing her practiced movements.
Angel sauntered toward her and propped a shoulder against the wall. He crossed his arms over his chest. She didn’t pause in her movements. Point, bend, a sweep of arm. Someone rushed past. Neither of them noticed—rather, neither showed they noticed.
“I did not mean for you to come
now
.” Her voice held a laugh. Pretty lips remained tipped up. An act for anyone that watched. “
Espèce d’idiot!
”
“Don’t spout French at me, Vivienne.” He grinned at her. She looked exceptionally beautiful when she was angry. Which she often was. It was difficult to see behind the lighthearted smile unless one knew where to look. “You gave no indication of timing when you gave your signal onstage.”
“Intermission—with the rest of the dandies—is a bit conspicuous.” She shook back her hair. A curl fell from the flowered head wreath to curve about her collarbone. “Can you not be more original?”
“No one will notice me.” He reached out, flicked the fallen curl so it fluttered about her neck. “You need to see the costumer again.”
“I just came from there.
Zut!
” Not by a flicker of an eyelash could one tell she was irritated. Unless one watched the sweep of her dance movements. “But, no more talk,
mon ami
. There is an assassin in the pit. An Adder. I have seen him before.”
Every muscle went rigid. His pleasure at seeing her drained. “Are you certain?”
“
Mais oui
.” Point, bend, sweep of arm. One hand let go of the wall to balance on her hip. “I saw him in Prussia. Many months ago. We had—words.”
“Only words? Why do I not believe you?”
“Just so.” She paused between the toe point and arm sweep to shrug. A most Gallic gesture from an English-born spy. She had perfected her Frenchness in the months since he’d last seen her. “The Adder and I, we did not speak. Not beyond the clash of knives. Quite good with a dagger, that one.”
“What does he look like?” He paused as a pair of dancers rushed by. Their gazes flashed between Angel and Vivienne. Hands covered mouths and giggles arose.
“Do not mind them.” She smiled at him. A flirtatious smile full of the life and gaiety she was known for. An act, he knew. One that was second nature to her. “The Adder is dark. Mediterranean coloring. Shorter than you. Thinner. Mean. Sharp eyes. I remember his eyes to be brown, but I could not verify this evening with the distance. He is wearing black and white, of course. You would not pick him out in the crowd.”
“Did he recognize you?”
“I do not think so. But I cannot be certain.” She stepped close. Her arm slid up to his shoulder, fluttered over the queue of hair at the back of his neck. A sign of flirtation to anyone watching. She was good at her chosen profession. Perhaps he might have felt some stirring for her if he didn’t know she could kill a man in a dozen different ways. Likely more. She set her lips against his ear. “He was watching your box,
Mon Ange
. He looked once. Twice. He walked around, then returned. Looked again.”
Her scent rose. Not cloying. Sharp and clean. No perfume for Vivienne.
He owed her much more than she knew. “Thank you.” He kissed her cheek. He tried to make it appear loverlike. But dammit, it felt just like the kiss he gave little Maggie, his niece.
“May we not cross swords,
Mon Ange
”—she turned her face, brushed her lips against his—“but raise our glasses together at the end of days.” It was the same good-bye she always gave her fellow spies. Her trademark. The spies were her only family, after all.
Her lips touched his ear. “Watch your back.”
—
A
S
A
NGEL DISAPPEARED
into the intermission activity in the halls beyond, Lilias turned back to the other occupants of the box. They all watched her. Expectantly.
“The performance is wonderful.” But of course, that was not what the dowager and her daughters-in-law were interested in.
“I should not have mentioned his music,” the dowager said quietly. She clutched at her fan. “It is private. Forgive me, and please do not mention it again.” Her lips were pinched, drawing in her cheeks. Lilias could see that Angel had inherited his mother’s sharp cheekbones.
“Do not worry.” Lilias gave a tiny head shake. “It will remain private.”
“Until he chooses to share.” Mrs. Whitmore smiled at her. Her smile held both warmth and sadness. “Do not force him, Mrs. Fairchild. Everyone has painful secrets.”
“You do not need to tell me of painful secrets. I understand them perfectly.” She wondered what secrets the lady hid behind her soft brown eyes. She was a widow, which they had in common. But Mrs. Whitmore would not understand what it was to watch men die. To kill. To hold a dying love in her arms. Or to learn the depth of betrayal.
“This is the most maudlin conversation I have ever had at the opera.” Elise, Lady Angelstone, stood up and crossed the box to take Angel’s seat. Her eyes were bright and mischievous. “Don’t let us scare you. Angel is the only male left in our family. The poor man must be continually defending himself against four women.”
“Four?”
“Well, three women and a six-year-old girl,” Lady Angelstone qualified. “But I daresay little Maggie counts as a woman when a man is so significantly outnumbered.”
“I just barely remember the age of six.” It seemed a lifetime ago. She smiled at the sudden memories of bright summers and green grass and fishing holes. And the little village boy she’d been desperately in love with. “I would have most definitely counted myself a woman.”
“We’re not sure if Maggie counts herself a woman or a soldier.” Mrs. Whitmore laughed. “And Grandmamma does not help!”
The dowager bristled. “Nonsense. Maggie is precocious, that’s all.”
“Which you encourage,” Lady Angelstone said, raising a brow. She leaned toward Lilias. “Maggie is also blood-thirsty.”
“Which
I
encourage, much to her mother’s dismay.” Angel’s deep baritone penetrated the box. He stood in the doorway, a glass of punch in each hand. A grin flashed. It was meant to be carefree, but it did not reach his eyes. Those eyes were hard and sharp.
Something was wrong.
“So you do.” Mrs. Whitmore pursed her lips. “That better be punch for me, as recompense for your blood-thirsty teachings to my daughter.”
He transferred the glass into her fingers. “Of course. The other is for Mrs. Fairchild.” Gold eyes slid their way, lit on his other sister-in-law in his seat. “Have we traded places, then, Elise?”
“Forgive me, Angel. I commandeered your seat.” Lady Angelstone stood and shook out her skirts before returning to her seat. “And I daresay Maggie shall overcome your lessons soon enough and become a proper little lady.”
“You are likely right, Elise. But she does seem to enjoy my lessons.” Angel reclaimed his seat and extended the punch glass to Lilias.
“Thank you,” Lilias said, accepting the glass. She cocked her head. “Just what lessons have you been teaching your niece?”
“Napoleon’s battle strategies versus Wellington’s.”
Lilias choked. “You haven’t.” She was lucky the punch hadn’t sprayed across the front of the opera box. The patrons below might have disliked the slightly used beverage.
“She’s partial to Wellington’s strategies, but I think she may be biased.” Eyes gleamed with amusement. “She might like to hear your opinion on Waterloo.”
Now it was Maggie’s mother’s turn to choke. “Oh, heavens, no. I don’t need Maggie thinking she can go to battle.”
There was a collective pause in the box. Lilias’s battle experiences had barred her from numerous drawing rooms. There were many that pretended they hadn’t happened, simply because she was a favorite of the great Wellington. But it was never,
never
discussed.
“Is there something wrong with fighting for your country?” Angel’s words were soft and dangerous.
Lilias could see the hurt roll through Mrs. Whitmore. A tremble of lips, the tightening of her jaw.
“There’s nothing wrong with fighting for your country, Angelstone, as you well know.” Lilias tapped her fan on Angel’s arm. He did not need to defend her at the expense of his family. “But perhaps I should tell Maggie I wish I had never experienced it.”
“Truly, this conversation cannot become any more awful than it is. Did we not already decide we were maudlin this evening?” Lady Angelstone smoothed out her skirts. “Do you know, Mrs. Fairchild, I love that shade of purple in your gown. But I wonder if the entire ensemble wouldn’t look better with the addition of bright orange.”
The entire Angelstone clan groaned. Lilias only laughed. “I hadn’t thought of orange. But now that you mention it, perhaps I can find orange trim for my skirt.”