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Chapter Two

Angelique was so surprised she spoke without thinking. “Why?”

Her employer’s eyebrows went up, way up. She was not paid to ask why, and normally she didn’t. She had always been convinced of the necessity of drastic acts by the nature of the people on whom he asked her spy. Men plotting to assassinate the king or foment a bloody revolution were one thing, though; a common embezzler was another. And this time Stafford was coercing her into a mission she didn’t like, in a role she flatly refused to play, with an ignorant, bumbling American to watch over. She lifted her chin under Stafford’s regard and waited for his reply.

For a moment he looked annoyed, and then his expression smoothed into its usual imperturbable lines. “The Crown does not wish him to linger. The Crown wishes for him to…disappear.”

Angelique frowned. This mission grew less and less appealing by the minute. “I do not like it. It always makes things difficult.”

“You have done it before.”

“Not with pleasure,” she snapped. “Such a mess. And what am I to do with Avery if he should protest? He declared his intention to take this man back to America with him.”

“You’ll manage.”

She scoffed. “If I agree.”

“Are you threatening not to agree?”

She met his level stare with her own for a long moment. “More than threatening,” she said at last. “You have given me very little reason to agree, particularly with this added”—she flicked her fingers in distaste—“complication.”

“I did not think I needed to. Beyond the usual inducement, that is.”

Angelique made a face. He meant her payment. She was always paid treble if he required her to kill anyone. She didn’t quibble at cutting a throat now and then, not when the throats belonged to men with every sort of sin on their souls already and more planned, but taking a life was not something to be done lightly. If she didn’t demand a premium, Stafford would have her hands permanently covered in blood.

And now an embezzler? When even his victim didn’t wish him dead? “I am not so desperate for money as that.”

He frowned. It was just a pair of lines between his brows, but she wasn’t used to seeing anything like it on his face. Stafford was ever sure of himself. Perhaps it was because he was suddenly not sure of her, after all these years. How many had it been now—nine? Ten? It brought back her morning disquiet about her own advancing age, and made her just want to leave.

She put up one hand when he started to speak. “I will think about it. But I do not like it.”

“I tried to persuade Mr. Avery that his participation was not needed.” It was a peace offering, or as close as John Stafford ever came to one.

She dipped her head in acknowledgment. “You will have my answer tomorrow. I trust that will not be a problem.”

He, in turn, accepted her delay without argument. “Not at all.”

Angelique thought through the strange conversation as she walked out of the building. Stafford wanted her, specifically, to go with the American, when it would be so much easier to have Ian handle it. He didn’t want anyone to know what happened to Dixon; he wanted Dixon to simply disappear. Embezzling—from the Americans, no less, not even from the English—wasn’t worth killing a man over, let alone so secretively. Stafford must want him dead for other reasons, reasons that must have either just come to his attention, or existed for some time but been negated by the simple fact that Stafford obviously didn’t know where or how to find Dixon. Avery said the man had been in America for several years.

Her dark mood soured more at the thought of Avery. A prominent family, a personal letter from the President of his country. This did not sound like a man capable of the deceit, discretion, and daring necessary. And he didn’t look pleased to hear Stafford wanted her to go with him, which meant she might as well consider him in the same category as Dixon: unpredictable and untrustworthy.

Angelique wished it were Ian Wallace instead. Ian respected her abilities and did what she told him to do. They got on well together and trusted each other—as well as any two people in their profession could trust each other. Avery, on the other hand …

She shook her head in irritation as she emerged into the bustle of Bow Street. With any luck, Mr. Avery would decide he couldn’t bear to work with a woman and quit before they began. With even greater luck, Stafford would call off the entire episode when he did so.

* * *

Nate Avery almost missed the Frenchwoman when she finally emerged from the Bow Street offices. She came not out the front door but from an alley some distance away. She walked briskly, without looking around her, her head held high. Nate tossed aside the newspaper he’d been pretending to read as he waited, and followed her.

Had he not known to look for her, she wouldn’t have particularly caught his eye. Once he had seen her move, though, he couldn’t recall why not. Her posture radiated poise and command. “Command” might not be the usual thing to attribute to a woman, but this one had it. Nate recalled how she had dealt with Stafford and what the man had said about her: She is exceedingly capable. Just looking at the back of her bonnet and the set of her shoulders made him think it might be true.

Still, she wasn’t at all what he had expected, and that bothered him.

Already things were going wrong. Nate had approached Stafford because he needed to; that was according to plan. There was little to no chance the British would be pleased if he tracked down one of their own and spirited the man back to New York without so much as a courtesy visit. Nate had fully expected to be sent along with an Englishman at his side, some pinched-faced fellow meant to watch over him as much as help him.

He had not expected the pinched-faced Englishman to be a dainty Frenchwoman, let alone one who looked barely old enough to be without her governess but walked with the confidence of a warrior. She was a beauty, to be sure, and that alone would probably be enough to snare Jacob Dixon’s attention, as Stafford had suggested.

But Dixon was as slippery as an otter, and had talked and charmed his way past dozens of people who ought to have known better. There was little chance he’d reveal the details of his crimes to any woman, not even that one. Nate was torn between amazement that Stafford wanted to send her, and frustration that he would have to puzzle her out at the same time he tried to pin down Dixon.