You Only Love Once (9 page)

“More than that,” he exclaimed. “We're supposed to act as man and wife. You say the servants know nothing of this, so we must persuade them at home, too.”

“We will act the same way as we act in public.” She, too, lowered her voice. “The English are more reserved; they do not expect to see emotion on display, in affection or in argument. And the servants will be gone by tomorrow at the latest.”

He searched her face for a moment. Her expression was as cool as ever, but there was a bloom of color in her cheeks—put there, he hoped, by their cautious flirting. Prince would give him no end of torment about it, but Nate was in danger of being utterly fascinated by his dangerous, beautiful new “wife.” He knew she was trying to control him and remain in charge. He was aware that she still hadn't told him anything about Stafford's true motives in sending her, or what exactly she planned to do to help capture Jacob Dixon. But he was stuck with her, and she with him—less than happily, perhaps, but stuck nonetheless. He would have to discover how to ingratiate himself with her, or risk the whole enterprise collapsing.

“We know nothing about each other,” he said instead. “Stafford said I was to be a wealthy American merchant with a bored wife—that leaves a great deal to the imagination. You said yourself we must
talk, and better now than later. There's no way we can think of a story that explains everything; we'll have to invent as we go along, and that will be much easier if we share a certain perception of the situation.”

“You proved you did not care to be bothered by the tedium of that,” she retorted. “Instead you wish to tease and make fun and kiss my hand, as if that will do any good.”

“I enjoyed it,” he said. “And you did, too, no matter how much you glare at me now.”

Her mouth pinched, but the pink in her cheeks didn't fade. Interesting. “It means nothing, and accomplishes even less.”

“What plans do we need to make?” Nate was determined not to be shut out of this. “Besides the dressmaker, of course; I refuse to have anything to do with dressmakers.”

She glared a moment longer, then her expression eased. “I see now. You are not one who prepares; you are one who prefers to improvise.”

Nate considered. “That's half right. But I must warn you, I'm very good at improvising.”

“Indeed,” she murmured. “How long have we been married?”

“Two years,” he said without hesitation.

“How did we meet?”

“You were shopping at the market when a runaway horse almost ran you over. I whisked you out of harm's way, and you fell helplessly, instantly, deeply in love with me.”

“No doubt,” she said dryly. “Why are we estranged?”

“We are not estranged, we have simply drifted
apart. I devoted myself to business and making money; you, to shopping for ever more expensive clothing and jewels.” Nate suspected she wouldn't like that—she hardly seemed like the society women he knew who would spend every waking moment shopping if they could—so he added, on impulse, “It's nothing a trip abroad to England, where we must spend so much time alone together, won't repair.”

“You are very sure of your charm. What is your business?”

“Shipping,” he replied. This was too easy. Besides, it was true—or would be, as soon as he satisfied his thirst for adventure and dutifully returned to the family business. Nate thought he had a few years left before his father persuaded him to take up running things at Boudin. He'd grown up knowing it was his future.

“How dull,” she said with a trace of disdain.

“How profitable,” he countered. “If I have a spendthrift wife, I'd better have a fortune for her to spend.”

“How American. The English care nothing for earning, only for spending.”

Nate shrugged that off. “What else?”

“How long do we plan to stay in London?”

“A month or two. I expect to have won my wife's heart back by then, and will need to return to my offices.”

“But you plan to conduct business while you are here.”

“Of course. I might want to open a London office. I always welcome new custom. I could even take on a new investor or two, or invest my funds in some
promising venture here. Not that I intend to let business overtake the pleasures of this holiday.”

Her eyes narrowed at the last bit, but Nate kept his expression open and guileless. It was the first time he had made her pause in the rapid stream of questions she flung at him. “What if someone should make inquiries about your business?”

“My father founded it, right after the war with England. We run between Boston, New York, and Liverpool most regularly.”

“There is such a business, then.” He nodded, and that vaguely superior look came over her face again, as if she had caught him in some mistake. “Perhaps that is best; the less you lie, the easier it will be to maintain our pose.”

Nate laughed. “I'll lie when I need to. There's no reason to hide what could be verified with some small effort, especially not when the truth will work to my advantage.”

She paused. “Yes, you are right,” she said, rather grudgingly. “It will save time.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. “Shall we make attempts at our reconciliation, then? I am perfectly willing, Madame.”

“That, Mr. Avery, does not surprise me at all.”

“Nate,” he said. “My name is Nate. A wife should know her husband's name.”

“‘Mr. Avery' will be sufficient, given our estrangement.”

“You might at least try to sound a little regretful we're not on better terms with each other.”

“I regret that you regard this as a joke,” she snapped. “Stop flirting!”

“Then deal honestly with me,” he growled back.
Then he sighed. “I apologize. It was my hope to make things easier between us, since we must work together with some measure of trust. Don't mistake me for anything other than determined to see this through, no matter what.”

She studied him in silence, doubt written on her face. “Are you truly prepared for what you may have to do?”

“Without exception.”

“Hmm. We shall see.”

“You think I'm not equal to the task.”

Her eyebrow arched. “I think you have no idea what the task will require.”

Nate smiled, rather sardonically. “And you do? My dear, I have made a full study of Dixon's habits and interests. He fled New York in a hurry, but he left his fingerprints all over the city. The reason he has a month's lead on me is because I took my time examining each and every one of those fingerprints to get a full view of his character. Every man has his weak spot, and he'll be much easier to catch if I can place my thumb directly on his, and squeeze until he breaks. I'm not about to run through London shouting my interest on every street corner and spurring him into running off again.”

For the first time a glimmer of interest and respect sparked in her eyes. “A careful hunter,” she said thoughtfully.

He dipped his head in unabashed acknowledgment. “A determined one. I understand you're following Stafford's orders, not mine, and that you won't tell me what his true interest is. Frankly, as long as I end up with Jacob Dixon in my custody, I don't care why you're helping me or what you do to
ensure I get him. But I will take it very much amiss if you think to use me and then brush me aside.”

“I do not answer to you.”

“You will,” he murmured. “Stafford might be sitting in his office across town waiting to hear how things go, with the whole British navy ready to chase me out of the country if he tires of my cooperation. But you're the one here, dealing with me now, sleeping on the other side of the door from me.” He opened his hands expansively. “Come, my dear, I want only to make this as pleasant as possible.”

“Pleasant?” She gave a little huff of a laugh. “It does not need to be pleasant to be successful.”

“Can't we at least try to achieve both?”

“Ah, but if we should fail at one, it would be much better to fail at being pleasant.” She stepped closer, tipping up her chin to inspect him closely. “It does not need to be dreadful. But you would do well to remember that we are employed by different people.”

Nate couldn't stop himself from leaning down to her. “What does Stafford want?” he whispered. “I don't trust in the goodness of his heart.”

Her mouth curved wryly. “Nor should you. He has no heart.”

“You're not going to tell me, are you?” He gave her a coaxing smile as he said it.

She sighed, as if she did almost regret refusing him. “You do not wish to know. Believe me. You should concentrate on finding Dixon and getting your money, and do not think of what Stafford might want.”

“So I should trust you—after such a statement—and you won't do the same for me.” Her eyes nar
rowed, and Nate shrugged. “That seems terribly unfair.”

She arched one eyebrow. “Oh? You ask me to trust you to improvise. I do not improvise more than absolutely necessary. I prefer a well-thought plan, with all possibilities addressed. Just how do you propose to begin, Mr. Avery?”

“My name is Nate,” he interrupted to say.

“How shall you find this man you have crossed an ocean to seek?” she went on, ignoring it. “You are so certain it will all work out; you are so certain you will find him and persuade him to lead you to your money. How, sir? You say you have met him only twice. You have no plan and no idea where to find him. You say you will gallivant about London and improvise your way, as if Mr. Dixon will not have made some efforts to hide himself. Give me one reason to believe you have not come to London with nothing but confidence and a charming smile.”

“Charming?” He smiled widely. “I'm flattered, Madame.” Her expression grew, not thunderous with fury, but stony calm, and Nate dropped his teasing tone at once. “The jewels.”

“Jewels,” she repeated in a flat tone.

Slowly Nate nodded, keeping his eyes on her face. “The jewels Jacob Dixon will need to sell. He hid his stolen funds in diamonds and emeralds before he left New York. Jewels are more compact than coin, universally desired, and easily converted into ready money. Sooner or later he'll have to sell some pieces, and when he does, I'll be waiting for him.”

“Well.” Her posture eased. “I suppose that is somewhere to start.”

“It's a damned good place to start,” he replied. “A rich American with a spoiled wife will want to buy jewels, and I happen to be very particular. Any jeweler who can acquire certain pieces for me—or direct me to someone selling those pieces—will be handsomely rewarded.”

“I see.” Another amused look. “You are willing to spend freely then, to capture your quarry. Your president has a great deal of confidence in you.”

He had told no one about his connection to Ben Davies, and thus to Dixon. Stafford believed him sent by President Monroe on behalf of the United States, and he was; the fact that he was willing to spend not only his government's money but his own changed nothing. There was no reason to correct Madame Martand's assumptions. His personal motives were perfectly in accord with his official mission, after all; what did it matter to her whose money he spent, or why? “I have my instructions.”

Her expression turned faintly mocking. “Very good, sir. I suggest you concentrate on following them.”

Nate kept his weight against the door as she reached for the doorknob. “I am also not about to expose our ‘marriage' for the fraud that it is just because you don't like me.”

Her luscious mouth curled into a wicked smile. “It doesn't matter whether I like you or not, Mr. Avery.”

It does to me
, he thought,
cursed fool that I am
. But he certainly wasn't about to tell her that. Without a word he bowed his head politely and stepped out of her way, letting her sweep past him with a rustle of skirts, out the door and away without a backward
glance. For a long moment after she had gone he stood there still, illogically aware of the lingering scent of lavender. That was no ordinary woman. Like a witless lunatic, Nate was falling into a mad swirl of fascination, already in danger of losing some of his focus. As she said, he did prefer to improvise; in his experience, relying too much on plans only left one vulnerable to disaster when some part of the plan failed—as it almost always did. By keeping his goal fixed and letting everything else bend with the circumstances, he kept his options as varied as possible.

And with Madame Martand, he would need to keep every possible option open.

T
he house was settled by mid-morning the day after next. The servants who had been hired to clean and set all to rights were dismissed; Lisette would be responsible for stoking the fires, and for the laundry. Angelique had found it easier to have her own maid deal with bloodstains and other alarming insults on her clothing than to risk another servant asking questions or spreading rumors. Lisette was well accustomed to doing more when they were working, and Angelique didn't anticipate living in Varden Street long enough to care much about any housekeeping Lisette couldn't handle. She would have food and drink sent in every day, and Avery and his man were welcome to that; otherwise, they were on their own.

She had spent some time thinking over his plan to find Dixon. It was a good one, assuming Dixon didn't have a shady jeweler pry the stones out of the settings and sell them individually; distinctive jewels were easy to trace as long as they remained distinctive. But it was an avenue to pursue, and with far less trouble than trying to guess which kind of
society Dixon might move in and have to join it.

Avery had indicated he would be ready to begin the search as soon as possible, but when she went looking for him, he was not in his room. She knocked twice on the connecting door, then opened it when there was no answer. The room looked much as it had the first day, clean and empty. There were a few personal effects on top of the bureau, and a pair of boots stood by the door, no doubt waiting to be polished. She lingered a moment, considering searching his things to discover more about him, but decided against it. Unless she knew where he was and when he was expected back, it was unwise. Stafford had not told her to view Mr. Avery with suspicion, so there was no pressing reason to do it anyway.

He was not downstairs, either in the dining room or the parlor. He was not in the house at all, to judge from the quiet. Already she had become accustomed to hearing his laughter as he worked with his man, Mr. Chesterfield, and the rumble of his voice echoing down the stairs. After their luncheon the first day, he had stayed busy with matters of his own and left her to hers, but the sound of his voice seemed to follow her everywhere. Now that she wanted to find him, of course, he was nowhere to be seen.

She went to the attic to look for him. He and his man had gone up and down the stairs all day yesterday, setting up some sort of laboratory in the large room under the eaves, and she hadn't ventured up here yet. Lisette had seen it and reported it looked like the den of some crazed scientist. Angelique admitted some mild curiosity about what they were doing. It seemed an odd way to track their man, even though it did have the effect of easing her wor
ries about Mr. Chesterfield's presence; he rarely left the house, to her knowledge.

She tapped at the door, and when there was no answer, she turned the knob. It was unlocked, and swung open without a sound. Angelique stepped into the room and then stopped.

Lisette had been right. Every piece of furniture had been converted into table space; chairs held up wide boards, a mirror had been laid between the old settee and the bed frame, and an old table with a broken leg was propped up by what looked like a powder keg. All that space was filled with scientific equipment: mortars, strange-looking tools, bottles of liquids, and a wide variety of weapons. Even the mantel had been pressed into use, covered with a variety of small jars. A fire roared in the hearth, but the windows were wide open. And there was no sign of Mr. Avery, just Mr. Chesterfield, his close-cropped head barely visible behind a large bottle with steam pouring out the top. He was hunkered down on a stool, attention fixed on an iron pot that sat below the suspended bottle.

“Yes, ma'am?” he asked, eyes still trained on his bottle.

“I am looking for Mr. Avery,” she said, raising her voice as a log broke in the fireplace and the flames shot higher. It would be unbearably hot in here, but for the open windows.

“He is out, ma'am.”

“Yes, I see,” she murmured. Now that she had seen it for herself, she thought Lisette understated the matter. It looked like the den of a madman, scientist or not. “Will he return soon?”

Mr. Chesterfield's teeth flashed in his dark face.
“He did not tell me. But I expect he will. Is there something I may do for you?”

He still hadn't moved from his position crouched over the iron pot. She walked around one of the makeshift tables to see what he was doing. There was a small fire crackling in the iron pot, she realized, and he was feeding splinters of wood into it to keep it burning. Up close, the steam coming from the bottle had a greenish cast to it. “What is in the bottle?” she asked with some trepidation. If Avery had him up here brewing poisonous potions…

“Nothing, yet. It is an experiment. I hope it will distill into a liquid capable of producing great quantities of smoke, such as this, when a salt is dropped into it.” He waved his hand over the bottle, dispersing the vapor in a thick swirl toward her. It had a slightly mossy scent, but was relatively cool and hung in the air far longer than she would have expected.

“How curious,” she said. He just grinned at her again, then went back to feeding his fire. He was a young man, younger than Avery, she guessed, his cheeks smooth and unlined. She thought again of the brand on his arm; Mr. Avery had admitted the man had been a slave, and he had the accent of the West Indies. “
Quel âge avezvous?
” she asked on impulse.

“
Vingt-quatre ans
,” he replied without looking up. Only twenty-four. “I was born in Saint-Domingue, before the revolution there. Mr. Avery plucked me from a group of slaves to be executed. He persuaded the army captain charged with killing the slaves that he would like the joy of killing a Negro himself. When the captain turned his back,
Mr. Avery nailed me into a barrel and put me on his ship.”

“How daring,” she said shortly. And how rash. If Avery attempted anything like that on this assignment…

“Your pardon—that was Nathaniel's father I spoke of,” Mr. Chesterfield said. “Nathaniel is but a few years older than I am.”

It was evident from his voice that the young black man revered the Avery family—perhaps with good reason. She looked around at the contents of the room. There could be poisons in the bottles and gunpowder in the kegs. What on earth was Avery planning to do with it all? Or was he just ready to “improvise” some sort of explosion? “And is the son so daring as the father?” she asked evenly.

This time he laughed, a rich, rolling sound of pure amusement. “More so. He is still here, is he not?”

Angelique raised her brow at him. “Do I understand
I
am what he must brave?”

“No,” he said somberly, although his eyes twinkled. “It is Mademoiselle Lisette one must fear.”

She had to smother a smile at the unexpected reply. “Have you crossed her, then?”

“Not deliberately. She is too delicate a lady to stand my experiments, though.”

Lisette had stitched up wounds, served as a watch while Angelique broke into houses, and spied among other servants. She knew how to engineer a dress so it would accommodate all manner of weapons without destroying the line, and she was willing to undertake any job Angelique asked of her. Lisette was no more a delicate lady than Angelique was. “What are you making?”

“Smoke.”

“I believe you have succeeded.” A breeze from the window had blown more of the bottle's emission toward her, and she waved her hand to dispel it.

He grinned again. “Partly.”

Angelique realized he wasn't going to tell her, and that it didn't much matter to her. “As long as you are not going to cause an explosion or poison any of us, neither Lisette nor I have any objection,” she said aloud. “If Mr. Avery returns, please tell him I would like to speak to him.”

“I will, Madame.” He sprang to his feet and bowed very properly. “It was a pleasure to see you.”

She left the attic and went downstairs. In her room she rang the bell, and Lisette appeared a few moments later. “What is Mr. Chesterfield doing upstairs?” she asked her maid without preamble.

Lisette rolled her eyes. “Making a large mess and a new horrible smell every day.”

“Has he told you what anything is?”

“No, Madame, he just laughs and tries to make me smile.” Lisette sniffed. “He has been around his master too long, I think.”

That did sound like Avery. “That is not too disagreeable.”

“I wish him to stop,” said Lisette bluntly. “Is it safe to have him here? My cousin was part of the army sent to put down the slave rebellion in the Indies, Madame; the Negroes committed terrible atrocities against the French…”

“He told me the French army executed slaves. There is no shortage of atrocity in any race.” Angelique sighed. “Do you fear him?”

Lisette hesitated. “No, Madame.”

“Then do not act like it.” She went and opened her wardrobe. “Mr. Avery told me he would be ready to go out today, but he is away with no word of where he has gone or when he is expected back. If Mr. Chesterfield wishes to poison someone, he should practice on his friend.”

 

Nate jogged up the stairs to the attic Prince had made into his workshop. He rapped twice on the door and went in.

Prince glanced up. “At last.”

He snorted. “It's not like you sent me out to fetch some eggs. I had to visit three chemists to find what you wanted.” He handed over his parcels to Prince, who set about opening them at once. “Quicklime isn't on every London tradesman's shelf.”

Prince waved one hand. “Excuses! And I have been regaling Madame Martand with legends of your daring.”

“Oh?” Nate dropped into a chair, repressing any show of interest in what Madame Martand might have said or done or wanted to know about him. “She was looking for me? I may hide up here for an hour or two.”

Prince was not fooled. “Yes, she was looking for you. What a difficulty it must be, to work with such a woman. I commend your fortitude, Nathaniel. You are a brave and noble man, enduring such a trial with so little complaint.”

“Yes, it is a cruel imposition,” he agreed gravely, “but someone must do it.”

“Any time you wish to change places, I will be glad to eat luncheon with her.”

Nate hadn't been able to tell what she thought of Prince, aside from her warning about his slave brand. When he'd brought Prince with him, he had thought primarily of Prince's skills and how they might be useful to his objective. Prince could keep him well supplied with poisons, acids, and various other concoctions that might prove useful in his search, with no one the wiser where he'd gotten them. But he hadn't predicted being paired with Madame, let alone how she would react to Prince's presence. Perhaps he should have projected more indifference between the two of them to keep from raising her suspicions. “You must be all done with your work, then,” he said.

“Don't touch it,” snapped Prince as he reached for the bottle. Nate smirked, and Prince gave him a warning frown as he carefully removed the bottle from the stand that held it above the fire. He blew away the vapor curling around the lip of the bottle. “Hand me a pinch of those crystals.”

Nate obliged, sprinkling the crystals carefully into Prince's palm. Eyes fixed on the bottle, Prince poured the crystals in and swirled the bottle. The liquid fizzed, then thick white smoke began pouring forth, billowing around Prince's head like a cloud.

“How long does it last?” Nate asked.

“Wait and see.” Prince's face shone with satisfaction as he put down the bottle and turned to his notes, scribbling several lines. Nate flipped out his watch and they waited as the bottle smoked.

“Ten minutes,” he announced. The bottle was nearly empty now, the liquid almost gone. A dark green residue coated the inside of the bottle.

“Ten!” Prince beamed and waved one hand about to get rid of the last of the smoke. “Better. That's almost long enough for you to disorient Madame enough to steal a kiss or two.”

“Perish the thought,” said Nate, getting to his feet. “You'd need a healing potion if I ever attempted such a thing.”

“Oh, Nathaniel.” His friend was shaking his head. “Perish the thought? Are you telling me or yourself?”

He paused at the door. “Both. You know I never did have the sense to pass up a challenge.”

Prince was still laughing at him as he closed the door. Nate went downstairs and knocked on Madame's door. “You wanted me?” he drawled when she opened it.

She coolly looked him up and down. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“Where?”

“Out,” he repeated evenly. “I had some errands to do.”

Madame closed her eyes, and her chest filled, doing lovely things to her bosom, but then she opened her eyes and glared at him. “When you go out, tell me,” she snapped. “Tell me when you will return. I do not wish to sit about waiting for you to wander back into the house, wondering if you have gotten yourself lost or in trouble.”

“You were worried,” he said sympathetically. “How kind of you to take such a concern for my well-being.”

Her expression smoothed into something almost frightening. “Do not do it again,” she said in a low
voice. “Are we still to go out today in search of these jewels, or have you already visited every jeweler and fence in town?”

“Not at all. I wouldn't dream of taking action without your oversight—forgive me, without your assistance. When do you wish to begin?”

“This afternoon,” she said. “The sooner we begin, the sooner we will find your man.”

He leaned one shoulder against the door. “Yes. And then what, exactly?”

Her eyes were clear and innocent. “Then we will achieve your goal, yes? Find the man, reclaim the funds, and you can return home victorious.”

Nate narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. She always phrased it like that, glossing over any details. It hardly fit with her declared preference for precise planning, and her comment yesterday, that he didn't really want to know what Stafford's interest was, had kept him awake last night. He might not want to know, but damn it all, he needed to know. “And you are under instructions to help me retrieve the funds as well as find Dixon?”