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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, though part of him also wondered how somber it was. But by far the largest part of him was curious enough to wait it out and see what she did next.

Chapter Four

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

“Sugar?” Mélanie 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.” Mélanie’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 will pour brandy into the tea until I cease complaining.”

Mélanie 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.” Mélanie paused, waiting.

Angelique said nothing and sipped her tea. She ought to come see Mélanie more often, and not just when she was preparing to go off on one of Stafford’s assignments. Mélanie was the closest thing to family she had, practically her mother. Angelique did not remember her mother, a French countess who had gone to the guillotine when Angelique was only an infant. She remembered only Mélanie, her mother’s maid who had risked her life to smuggle Angelique out of France to England, and safety.

Mélanie 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 Mélanie 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?” Mélanie 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.”

“Hmph.” Mélanie’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 proved herself equal to it, capable of deadly actions. She never told Mélanie any of that, but she suspected Mélanie knew it anyway. And Mélanie certainly hadn’t raised her to be a soft, weak female.

“It is not the usual work,” she said, then stopped. The American’s shocking green eyes flashed through her mind, and she frowned uneasily at just how odd this assignment was.

“He wishes you merely to follow someone? Steal something?” Mélanie 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.”

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

“I don’t know that it will be more trouble,” she went on, choosing her words carefully even as she wondered why it was so difficult to tell Mélanie. 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 Mélanie to have an idea, in case something disastrous should ever happen to her. No one but Mélanie 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 came to Stafford, and I am sent to keep an eye on him as well as fulfill my own task.” 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?” Mélanie exclaimed. She looked as unpleasantly surprised as Angelique had been by this introduction of a stranger. That was mildly comforting, 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 done,” 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 Mélanie that all was well. Ever since she became Stafford’s spy, she had kept this veil between her and Mélanie. It was better for both of them if no one knew of their connection.

“You should leave this,” Mélanie 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 Mélanie knew. Wordlessly she nodded.

“Every time you come to see me, I always hope it is to tell me you are done with it,” Mélanie 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 maman 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 it.”

Mélanie’s mouth pinched. “You cannot avenge what happened to your parents.”