Page 68

“What?” For a moment her heart surged in panic, and her hand made an involuntary movement toward her knife. “What do you see?”

“That’s why you’re so flustered. I’m not used to seeing that, you know. The calm, cold Angelique is never without a plan.” He grinned again, but only for a moment. “So you’ve got him and don’t know what to do with him.”

“No. Can you guess why?”

“I’d wager it has something to do with the American.”

“In a way,” she said slowly, “but not as you think. Nate did not change my mind, even though I thought it was very wrong of Stafford to deceive him. He allowed Nate to believe I was here to help him in every way, not to use him. It was Dixon himself who managed to make me doubt.”

Ian let his astonishment show. “How?”

She knew it was completely unlike her, to be swayed by the arguments of the person she was supposed to pursue. Perhaps she misspoke; if not for Nate, and her sense of the injustice Stafford did him, she never would have hesitated long enough to hear Dixon’s story. “He told a story,” she said. “I am still trying to discover if it is true, but if so, it calls into question everything about Stafford and what he wishes me to do.”

“And if this man told you a lie?” Ian asked skeptically. “As is very likely. Then what?”

“Then…” If Dixon lied, then what was she to do? Kill him after all, for the trouble he’d caused her? Or let Nate take him back to New York for trial in defiance of Stafford’s orders, because killing him made even less sense? Harry had better find something definite about Selwyn, because she didn’t know what she would do if Dixon’s story proved to be false, or demonstrably impossible. “I don’t know. I will deal with that if I must.”

“How will you know? Seems to me you’ve already started believing him, else you’d not have delayed so long, nor sent me out to quiz Stafford.”

“I am trying to confirm certain details of Dixon’s tale.” She hesitated. “I have asked Harry, although he does not know why I want to know.”

“You should have sent him to Staff,” Ian said. “He could bring along his demon-faced grandfather and have Staff on his knees, groveling for mercy.”

“Demon-faced?” asked Angelique, diverted. She knew Harry’s grandfather was a viscount, but little more.

“I saw him once, around Bow Street. I’d not want to cross that one. All of Sinclair’s cunning and none of his charm.”

She remembered again what Harry had told her: even his grandfather didn’t trust Stafford anymore. A knot of tension twinged in her back, right between her shoulder blades. “Stafford cannot know I am hesitating,” she said, returning to the main point. “If I had sent Harry, Stafford would have been suspicious at once. But I hope he can tell me if Dixon’s primary claim is true.”

Ian was quiet for a long moment. “You think he will.” It was not a question.

Angelique nodded. “I suspect he will.” There was too much in Dixon’s story that made sense. A man rising to unexpected power and prominence becoming drunk on ambition and pride. A child suddenly not meeting his father’s new expectations. A mother’s fierce determination to protect her child at any cost… Yes, that resonated deeply in Angelique’s heart.

And Dixon seemed just the sort of man to conceive of such a plan, carry it off with callous flair—finding a dead prostitute who resembled the countess was a morbidly dramatic touch—and then go on to other deceptions in a new land. It was all too easy to imagine the panic Selwyn would have felt upon learning of Dixon’s return, and how he might have acted to eliminate the threat once and for all, relying on the power and position he had sacrificed so much to achieve. She could see it and believe it all…assuming it was true.

Therein lay the problem. She could believe it—but how could she know it was true? Even if Harry came back and said Selwyn had been married before, did it prove he had sent the wife away? If Selwyn had not remarried, did that cast doubt on Dixon’s claim that the earl would still want him dead? And ever looming in her mind was the question of Stafford. If Dixon’s story were true, and if Selwyn had acted as Dixon charged, where did Stafford stand? The tension crept up her neck into her head, and she rubbed her temples wearily.

“When will you talk to Harry again?” Ian broke the silence to ask.

“Tomorrow, I hope.”

Ian nodded. “And what’s your American’s part in all this?”

“My American?” She laughed a little. “He is not mine.”

“Only if you don’t want him. You said Stafford deceived him. I assume he feels the same way. Is he a danger?”

Angelique ignored the flare of longing that Ian’s remark about Nate ignited. If only it was true, or could ever be true… “He wishes to do what is right, but he is not pleased to have been used and manipulated. His duty is to his country, not to Stafford. But he will not act without telling me.”

Ian’s smile was grim as he patted her hand. “I hope not, love. For your sake.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

When Nate returned hours later, Angelique almost wilted in relief. She hadn’t thought he would just leave, even if he did discover the missing fortune tucked neatly in Jacob Dixon’s desk drawer, but his absence had been more wearing than expected. The house was eerily quiet and still after Ian left, and even Lisette made herself scarce. Feeling as though she would go mad without something to do, but not wanting to be away from the house when Nate came back, Angelique began packing. One way or another, her work here was nearly done.

As always happened on a job, her things had got into a terrific mess, and she spent some time sorting and wrapping various dresses and disguises. To her surprise she found the magenta gown in her wardrobe. Lisette had cleverly repaired the long rent in the skirt, stealing some of the fullness from the back and draping it around the front to hide the tight, flat seam mending the tear. Angelique brushed her hand over the cool silk, and remembered Nate’s hands inside it, moving on her skin. A breath of want rippled over her skin, raising the hairs on her arms, and she was in the process of folding the gown when she heard the front door.

Nate was in the hall, peeling off his dripping greatcoat when she hurried down the stairs. “You’re soaked,” she exclaimed.