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“And he makes ether.”

“He’s a scientist,” Nate said with a grin. “He makes what he wants to make. But your maid can rest easy now. He’s moved his laboratory back to the ship.”

“Ah.” Some reserve crept into her voice, and she avoided meeting his eyes. “We should get up. There are plans to be made. We must begin monitoring the Pulteney⁠—”

“Let it wait.” Nate didn’t give a damn about Dixon right now. This was the most open he’d ever seen Angelique, and it was entrancing. He wanted to prolong it, to discover who she really was. “Now that I’ve told you all about my life, what of yours?”

“You have not told all about your life.”

“What would you like to know?” he asked, stubbornly keeping his arms around her even as she threw back the blankets.

“Nothing,” she snapped. “We have spent too much of the day lying in bed.”

“Answer one question first,” he parried. “What would you do if you weren’t Stafford’s agent?”

She stopped trying to wriggle out of his arms and looked up at him with surprise. “If I had never been, or when I am no longer?”

“When you no longer are.” The other choice was impossible anyway.

“I don’t know yet,” she said softly. “I always thought I would go to Mélanie, but now that does not seem wise, given what happened in Vauxhall.”

“Who is Mélanie?” he asked.

She smiled, her face luminous with affection. “She was my mother’s servant. My parents were killed in the Terror in France and she carried me to England in her valise. She told the soldiers I was hers, the child of a French partisan. She raised me as if I were her own.” She went quiet, her face grave. “I owe everything to her. She is my only family. I see her a few times a year, before I take new assignments from Stafford. If only I could visit her more…”

Abruptly Nate recalled a quiet graveyard, where she sat pensive and still, as if waiting… waiting for the rector’s wife. The warmth of her smile hadn’t been mere politeness but familiarity. “Mélanie is Mrs. Carswell,” he guessed aloud.

She paused, her eyebrows arching, then sighed. “Yes. You need not have followed me there.”

“Doubtless not,” Nate murmured. She went to the rectory before beginning new assignments, which meant she must have mentioned something to Mrs. Carswell. Most likely Mrs. Carswell had known, or suspected, who he was the moment he opened his mouth and spoke to her in his American accent. “Who lies in the grave you visited?”

“An Englishman and his wife.” Her tone was even, but a warning sparked in her eyes.

“Ancestors?”

“Of someone, I am sure.”

“But not yours.” For some reason, he felt sorry for that.

“No.”

“So you pretend to mourn them?”

“I cannot visit my own parents’ grave,” she said coldly. “I mourn them, and the rest of my family, and at the end I say a little prayer for the Englishman and his wife, too. Does that satisfy you?”

“No,” he said, staring at her thoughtfully. “Not nearly.”

She sniffed. “Pity. It is more than you deserve to know.”

“I meant,” he said in a low voice, “that I want to know more. You are a riddle to me—one I find myself unable to resist.”

His words acted as a killing dose on her prickly manner. The anger faded from her dark eyes, leaving them shadowed with something wistful and a little sad. “You do not want to know more,” she replied at last, even more quietly. “Believe me, Nate. I keep my secrets for good reason.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Nate spent the whole of that day regretting pushing her to talk about her family, because it had chilled Angelique’s mood ever since. She hadn’t been cold to him, as she had been before, but the warmer, tender side she’d shown last night and early this morning had vanished. By the time he’d gone back to his room to wash and dress, she had directed her attention to finding Dixon, and nothing of their scorching night together, not to mention the more intimate—and more memorable—morning was mentioned. She was clear-eyed and focused, a professional spy operating at her most efficient. It was time to get to work.

For the first time Nate felt his determination wavering. He still wanted to find Jacob Dixon, but more and more of his attention was wandering to Angelique. How had she become a spy? And why? What was she really up to? And how could he draw out that sympathetic, tender creature who visited the maid who saved her from a revolution and raised her, and who said a prayer for long-dead strangers? As fascinated as he was by the beautiful, dangerous temptress, that other woman could bring him to his knees.