The room remained pitch black. Whoever shared this room with him didn’t know he was here.
A few tense seconds passed before the other intruder began moving noisily. The sound was familiar. It was the swish of silk skirts. He peered around a solid walnut leg just in time to see a long swath of coral silk rush across the sliver of moonlight cutting through a cracked window.
Mariana.
It must have occurred to her to search Villefranche’s rooms, too. Except, she barely paused in this room, clearly Villefranche’s office. Instead, she strode straight through to the bedroom. Clever woman. She was beginning to think like a spy.
Of course, Villefranche would keep his closest secrets near him in his bedroom. Nick experienced another surge of pride for this quick, intelligent woman who was his wife.
Gingerly, he rose to his feet, stretching his long, cramped body, his ears trained on the sounds emanating from the other room—skirts shushing, bedcovers rustling—as she searched nooks and crannies for evidence. But why was she here in the first place? The question only just occurred to him. Didn’t she understand the danger was passed now that the plot to assassinate King Charles had been foiled?
Curiosity whetted, Nick padded softly toward the room. Her skirts went silent. She’d detected his tread, but didn’t yet know the other occupant was her husband. Unless . . . unless she’d followed him and saw him slip inside the room. That was the most likely scenario, but . . . Why hadn’t she acknowledged him if that was the case?
An unhelpful thought occurred to him: Mariana was in a bedroom.Blast.
Focus. He wasn’t here to make love to her in a bed. He was here to find evidence and wrap up this mission. There would be time for beds later.
Just beyond the doorway, he slowed to a stop when she came into focus. His brain needed a moment to process the vision greeting his eyes.
Stretched atop the Comte de Villefranche’s massive four-poster bed reclined a Mariana clad simply in a transparent white shift and stockings held up by silver garters. The shift reached just far enough to cover her . . . quim.
His breath caught in his chest. She resembled nothing so much as the world’s most delectable courtesan.
Her eyes trained on the doorway, she called out in a hushed whisper, “Lucien?”
One salient detail became instantly clear: she hadn’t followed him into Villefranche’s rooms. In fact, judging by the tentative expression on her face, she had no idea that her husband stood just outside the frame of light.
A riot of emotion assailed Nick as he stepped forward into a moonbeam. Her cautious smile froze, then fell, revealing more than she might want to tell. He could no longer deny the conclusion that had been staring at him from the instant she’d swished into these rooms. Mariana was here for Villefranche.
Through the noise of anger and betrayal, one last shred of hope sounded: perhaps she thought she still needed to seduce the man to obtain information. She could be confused.
Which made no sense. Mariana didn’t get confused.
But a drowning man would grasp at anything to prevent himself from going under. He forced himself to loosen his stance, lean a relaxed shoulder against the doorjamb, and paste an easy smile onto his lips. Nothing had ever been more difficult in his life. “I feel like an addendum to our lastspy lessonis in order.”
Her arms crossed defensively. Good.
“When seducing a mark in his own bed, make absolutely certain he still is on premises.”
“He was here when last I saw him.”
“So you no longer need to exercise,” he continued as if he hadn’t heard her, his hand sweeping toward the bed, “any means.”
Her head tilted inquisitively to the side. “Who says I no longerneedto seduce Villefranche?” she asked, her eyes burning with the combustible light he’d detected earlier. “What about what Iwant?”
Nick’s insides went heavy with dread, her question confirming his deepest fear: she was indeed arrayed atop the Comte de Villefranche’s bed to seduce . . . the Comte de Villefranche.
Hurt and betrayal swept through him with the force of a tidal wave. “Did last night and this afternoon mean nothing to you?” he asked unable to curb the impulse.
“Last night and this afternoon meant pleasure to me. Pure and simple.”
“No, Mariana, it meant more to you than lust. I was there, remember?”
A laugh sounded from her. It resonated across his eardrums the way a bitter quince would across his tongue. “That was then,” she began, “and this is now. I seek a new experience.”
He stepped closer. “I may not know every detail of your mind, but I do know exactly who you want toexperience.” He’d thrown down the gauntlet.
“I am here toexperiencea different man,” she replied, picking it up.
