Page 27

“How did he know you?”

She hesitated. “Let us go home. I will tell you there.”

He pulled her into the shadows nearby, enfolding her in a loose embrace. He brushed a lock of hair back from her temple, and murmured in her ear, “I am not letting that man walk out of this damned pleasure garden and unmask you to the world. Tell me how he knew you, and what he might do that could endanger either of us.”

Angelique sighed. She was so tired of this. She let him draw her to him, resting her hands on his chest. It would reinforce the appearance that they were lovers stealing a kiss in the darkness. That it also felt comforting and right to lean on him was just a figment of her imagination, a trick of her fancy—nothing more. It was merely part of the job. The fact that he was warm and solid under her hands and so very comforting meant nothing.

“I played a private nurse to a marquis who fancied himself afflicted with every trifling illness known to man. That man, back there, was a friend of his. They are arrogant, rich men, who think women exist for their pleasure, no matter how twisted their pleasures are. They both preferred young girls, whether bought and paid for or unwillingly taken. I believe they routinely abused each other’s servants.” She couldn’t hide her disgust. “The day after I arrived in the marquis’s home, a laundry maid, barely fifteen, was dismissed, cast out of the house into the street with nothing but her clothes. She was small and thin, and simply sat weeping on the pavement until the marquis had a footman chase her off. Later the governess told me the marquis had used her—forced himself on her—until she became with child. That was when he turned her out.”

Nate said nothing, but his arms closed tighter around her. Angelique laid her cheek against his shoulder. He might not make the most imposing figure, but he was the perfect height for her. She felt oddly at peace here in his embrace, not to mention safe.

She raised her head after a moment. “Let us go. I do not want to see him again.”

“What’s his name?” he asked.

“I don’t remember, nor do I care to.”

“If he sees either of us again, he’ll remember.”

“Grabbing his ballocks did nothing to erase the memory.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I squeezed them hard enough that he’ll remember what I said.”

She gave a reluctant snort of laughter. Men like Barings deserved to have their ballocks torn off; it was more fitting than a quick and painless pistol shot to the head.

But it didn’t change the truth of what Nate said: the man would remember them both, with crystal clarity this time. She sighed, fighting the urge to rest against him again. “Barings,” she murmured. “Lord Barings is his name. I just remembered.”

“We’d better keep an eye on him.” He turned toward the gates again and began leading her there, more sedately than before. “But not tonight.”

She made herself disengage his arm even though it felt supportive and comforting around her waist. It would not do, to become too accustomed to leaning on him. Nate gave her a quick glance, but released her, keeping only her hand on his arm, his fingers resting lightly on top of hers. She kept her head down, more mindful than ever of the dangers of her profession and current situation.

She’d never been recognized before. People were usually fooled by a wig, some cosmetics, and most of all by different clothing. She could be one woman sauntering along in a tight scarlet gown, her head thrown back and her eyes boldly raised, and another one entirely in a bedraggled gray dress with her eyes downcast and her cheeks padded out.

But when she was a woman tucked safely in Nathaniel Avery’s arm, she didn’t recognize herself. He had upended too much already in her carefully controlled life. She would do well to remember that this was an adventure for him. Once they found his man, he would sail back to his life in America, and she would begin creating her new life here. She still had no idea what that life would look like, and tonight only added to her worries.

She couldn’t go to Mélanie if there was a risk she would be recognized again. She would never forgive herself if she introduced filth like Barings into Mélanie’s life. She had done most of her work in London, and perhaps Whitton was too near to chance it. Perhaps she should look farther afield… to some lonely corner of England where she would be a complete stranger to everyone.

It didn’t sound very appealing, even to someone who wished to remain unknown.

In the road Nate hailed a hackney and handed her into it with more care than usual. She didn’t like that. Or rather, she liked it too much. Their goal tonight had been compromised because of her, and he hadn’t said a word of blame. Perhaps she should have thought more carefully before leaving her wigs behind. She couldn’t be dressed more differently tonight than she had dressed at Bethwell’s home, but it hadn’t been enough, and the fault was hers.

Nate told the driver where to go and took the seat beside her. Still he said nothing, but put his hand over hers. She turned her eyes to the window and looked blindly out, conscious of his touch. If their positions had been reversed, and he had been responsible for some near-disaster like this, she didn’t know how she would have responded. If he were another agent of Stafford’s, she would have flayed him alive and turned him off the assignment. Both he and Stafford would have expected no less. If he’d been another of Stafford’s men, though, he would be blistering her ears right now. Instead his hand was warm and gentle on hers.

Curse you, John Stafford, she thought in despair. She was beginning to like Nathaniel Avery in spite of herself.

When they reached the house, he jumped down from the hackney and helped her out before she could energize herself. Somehow his tender care had made her sluggish, as if she needed his arm to walk up the steps. That was wrong, of course, but she didn’t shake him off. She still didn’t need him, but tonight she was glad he was with her all the same.

Inside the narrow hall, he took her cloak and hung it up. “Thank you,” she murmured, turning toward the stairs. “Good night.”

“Angelique,” he said behind her. “Don’t go.”

Chapter Eleven

About to start up the stairs, she paused, her hand on the newel post. At his command she turned back, one brow arched. Nate modulated his tone. “Please,” he said, then stopped. What did he expect her to do? Tell him more about how Barings and that marquis might have imposed on her? Break down and weep over the terrible things she must have seen in her work? Offer to step aside, since being recognized as someone she was not could fatally compromise his entire mission?

Not a chance.

“Are you well?” he settled for asking.